The Last Avenger
by clairebearer
Summary: When New York is lost the world spirals into darkness at the hands of Loki as SHIELD is disassembled. Steve knows what it takes to win a war. But he never expected he'd be piloting Stark's suit. Crippled by guilt and haunted by his past he finds comfort in a SHIELD agent with her own tragic story who, with a little faith, just might be the key to their freedom. WARNINGS INSIDE
1. Foreword

**WARNING**

**This story includes major character deaths  
**

Alternate ending to The Avengers (2012)

Eventual Steve Rogers/OFC

I just want to warn you all that you are most likely in for an emotional roller-coaster of a ride, so for those who are easily affected by the feels, BE WARNED. THIS STORY CONTAINS MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS, LOTS OF ACTION, QUESTIONS MORAL JUDGEMENT WHEN IT COMES TO GOOD AND EVIL, AND WILL ALSO HAVE SOME LEMON (eventually).

Thanks to the lovely npeg for acting as my beta!

I do not own any characters etc (apart from OCs).

* * *

Juncture

"GET DOWN!" Steve shouted through the stern-faced mask of the Patriot armour.

Loki wasted no time and moved out of the line of fire to see a small flock of explosives fly past and blow the approaching group of Chitauri guards back through the door they came through. The room shuddered, and the beetle-like black metal walls of the ship creaked in protest to the confrontation taking place there. When the smoke cleared a little, and the faint ringing in his ears subsided, the trickster could sense that that would not be the last of their troubles.  
Loki struggled to regain his footing and slammed his hand into the door control panel by the wall, causing it to malfunction. The two of them were sealed inside the room with more guards outside, hammering frantically at the thick metal barrier. It would only buy them so much time, and they were running desperately low.

Steve stood sluggishly and noticed an array of flashing messages on his HUD before JARVIS' voice confirmed what he sensed was wrong.

"_**Captain, I'm afraid the suit has been compromised. It appears to be leaking oxygen and it is no longer space-worthy."**_

Steve's heart faltered. He could feel the beginnings of a dull pain creeping up his side, and he moved to assess the damage. There was a small crack in the suit's metal plating where he had been hit by a stray blast. He traced the tarnished metal with his fingers.

"How…how much oxygen do I have left, JARVIS?" asked Steve, head still titled as he continued to trace the crack in his armour.

There was a short pause before the AI responded in a quiet and considerate tone.

"_**Less than five minutes, approximately, and rapidly depleting."**_

He turned to observe the distant expanding hole of light through the observatory glass.

"It's… growing." Steve muttered.

"The portal has become unstable," said Loki. "If it is not closed… there may be no Earth left to return to."

"You can't shut it down, can you?"

"It is self-sustained now. The Tesseract is not just an energy source, it is… aware. It is not something that can easily be controlled."

"Well, we came here on a mission. I intend to see it through." Steve said as he steadied himself, raising a hand to the broken machine that held the glowing cube in its core, his repulsor humming, ready to fire. Loki practically lunged forward and grabbed Steve's arm, stepping in front of the machine as if he were a mother protecting her young.

"_**DON'T!**_" Loki shouted desperately. "It has a protective field of pure energy that cannot be breached by any mere weapon. If you try to destroy it this entire room will be blown into space, and the Tesseract will not be stopped!"

"Then what do you suggest we do if it can't be turned off or destroyed?!" Steve bit back.

Loki could hear the soldier's voice gradually diminish beneath the thundering of his own heartbeat as he stared into some distant place. The walls of the room seemed as though they were closing in on him, confining him to a tomb of his own making as the emptiness of space moulded an endless prison of eternal darkness.  
He would not admit it, but Loki was scared. There is reason to fear the dark; it is where we hide our demons. Not red-eyed beasts with dagger-smiles, but a part of _ourselves_. They are the memories, the regrets, and the _secrets_; the things too terrible and frightening to face. But no matter how deep we burry them, or for how long, pretty soon they _become_ that darkness, and the things we cherish most drown in it.  
Loki knew that darkness all too well. He'd welcomed it. Gradually, it had made its home deep within his heart, extending its reach until every fibre of his being played host to it. And over time, all that had once separated him from the shadows, the things that _truly mattered_, faded away, their glorious beacons smothered until only frail flames remained in the gloom. The mightiest of trees can stand tall beneath a black veil, but without the light of the sun its leaves wither and die. There is no power to be found there, for the darkness takes. It never gives.  
This is what Loki had come to understand, but only after much time and thought. Fate is a mistress shrouded in mystery, creating infinite winding routes and possibilities as she tells us to walk. Still, in spite of all her power, Fate does not choose the path for us. At that crucial junction we have the freedom to _choose_ our own destiny, and that choice will _define_ us.

As the darkness began to subside Loki caught the barest fragment of the answer to Steve's question within the burning glow of the Tesseract. He had once again reached a fork in the road and, much like one that now seemed so far behind him, it was a choice that would come with a price.

_Abandon the world, or fight for it?_

. . .

1 year earlier…


	2. Of Gods and Monsters

Thanks to the lovely npeg for acting as my beta and adding a few of her own things to the previous chapter especially! This is my first published fanfic so I am still getting used to how things work on here. This was really the most difficult thing I've done since my dissertation! XD

I just want to warn you all that you are most likely in for an emotional roller-coaster of a ride, so for those who are easily affected by the feels, BE WARNED.

Also, I was heavily inspired by Idlewild's "Tell Me Ten Words" for quite a significant part of the story, which I wanted to introduce in the previous chapter. Hope you like :).

For this I suggest anything from the official soundtrack from the Avengers film, especially tracks of the New York battle scene.

Feedback always appreciated and encouraged.

I do not own any characters etc (apart from OC)

* * *

_Of Gods and Monsters_

It was, quite simply put, sheer chaos that engulfed the Island of Manhattan that day. A great dark hole in the sky exposed the crowds of workers, tourists, mothers and children to a wave of mindless cruelty and death. Swarms of dull silver and black seeped into the narrow streams of traffic, flashes of blue gave way to fire and smoke, and the sounds of blood curdling screams and shattering glass made the air thick with panic and desperation as people ran for their lives in vain.

And Loki watched.

"Loki! Turn off the Tesseract or I'll destroy it!" Thor yelled over the chaos that roared above and below as he stood upon the balcony of Stark Tower, eyeing the proud trickster of green and gold who was admiring the view.

"You can't! There is no stopping it. There is only... the war!" Loki sneered, pointing his sceptre towards his brother as a challenge. Thor, disappointment and anger simmering behind his tired eyes, accepted.

"So be it."

What followed was a short-lived battle of sibling rivalry as weapons collided and unbridled rage flowed through hit after hit. The fight was graceless and dirty; a far cry from their last feat on the Rainbow Bridge, and stray blue streams of energy from Loki's sceptre shattered glass and destroyed much of the tower's sign beneath them. Even the Quinjet's interruption was no match for the raging determination that flowed through every fibre of Loki's being, firing a pulse of blue energy at one of the engines and sending the jet crashing into the chaos below. The two gods continued their brawl, raging and unyielding, an invisible energy forming between them like the destructive force of a tornado as warm air met with cold.  
Thor grabbed onto his brother as he deflected another blow and forced him to gaze upon the madness that had consumed the city as they fought.

"Look at this! Look around you!" Thor screamed. Loki's eyes, wide and feral, scanned the burning towers of shimmering silver as more of his flying demons descended upon the city.

"You think this madness will end with your rule!?"

Loki turned to face him. "It's too late… it's too late to stop it," he breathed. There was an air of doubt and exhaustion as he spoke, and for a moment he had honestly believed his own words.

"No," Thor replied in hope of finally reaching out to his lost younger brother. "We can. _Together_."

And just as he had done on the mountain the previous night, when he had been pulled from the small Midgardian craft only to be interrogated by his idiot of a brother, Loki felt real confliction.

_'You give up this poisonous dream and you come __**home**__.'_

For the briefest of moments he had lowered his guard and allowed his heart to rattle the confines of its prison as he recalled what that word had meant to him. The warmth of those many memories of his life on Asgard crept through his very bones and smothered the cold that clung to them. Memories before that fateful journey to Jotenheim, before he uncovered the greatest lie that was never his own, before he _chose _to let go of everything and welcome the nothingness that awaited him. But it had been a false life, a lie burned into his flesh as clear as his Joten skin was blue beneath its alabaster veil, and it would never go away. There was no stopping it. It was too late –two millennia too late.

Fate had brought them to this moment, but it had not placed the dagger in Loki's hand. Just as every soul in all the nine realms would someday be tested with a choice, like a traveller approaching a fork in his long and winding road, Loki now faced his, and it would be a decision that would determine his fate and the fate of many.

Loki's choice that day was one laced with poison.

His eyes glassy, and with a faint smile, Loki let go for a second time, just as he had on the shards of the Bifrost, and thrust the dagger into his brother's side.  
Thor staggered as the dagger pierced his side and a searing pain accompanied with dizziness consumed his body. Loki straitened his posture and gazed upon his fallen brother as he succumbed to the poison, a faint smile still tugging at his lips as a single tear ran down his cheek.

"Sentiment…" he breathed. A word he associated with weakness, and all that was wrong with the world he intended to rule, and Thor would witness the price of such a weakness before he breathed his last breath. Loki would make sure of it.

He sneered at the fallen god that slumped beneath him.

"It will be your undoing."

Loki raised a foot to rest on his brother's shoulder and kicked him down so that he fell onto his back, exposing the seeping wound in his side. Thor grunted at the pain as Loki bent down and removed the dagger, hovering over him as he admired the sheen of crimson on the blade.

"Not the poison that now courses through your veins, but the weakness of your misplaced faith in humanity," he spat, rising to loom over his brother as the hot crimson trickling from his side darkened the vibrant red of his cape.

"Sentiment is a far greater poison."

The trickster circled his victim, continuing to admire the blade between his elegant fingers, catching the light in short-lived flashes of brilliance. Thor tried to lift himself from the ground but only managed to pull himself to a sitting position against the glass wall of the balcony, clutching his side and noticing the true extent of his injuries as he raised his shaking hand to reveal a bloody palm.

"It won't heal," Loki said flatly, "Not in time to spare you from what I have planned for you. It drains you of your _immortality_. It is something that I discovered in my… absence, and from personal experience I can assure you that it can be _agonising_. Although I admit that it was perhaps not as potent as the concentration I offered you. What with your Asgardian brutish physique, I thought you may require a stronger dose."

He gestured to his brother mockingly as he paced, sneering. "It tastes good, does it not?"

Thor stared at him angrily through eyelashes but said nothing.

"The Chitauri have other means of torture than their barbaric weaponry."

Loki idly threw the dagger aside and approached him, lowering his sceptre to rest on his chest as it rose and fell, heavy and slow. Thor's arms were limp by his side but his eyes remained fixed on Loki's.

"Now…" he began, as the sneer melted from his features, "I intend to make use of that heart of yours before it falters."

. . .

"_Stark! Are you seeing this!?"_

"Seeing, still working on believing. JARVIS, find me a soft spot."

Tony stalked the giant flying creature from a neighbouring street. The fight was frankly getting rather ridiculously out of hand and they had not planned for giant alien serpent pets. In all honestly they hadn't really planned anything at all, so Tony took the initiative and did what he does best – shoot first, ask questions later. However, the shooting wasn't stopping the floodgates in the heavens above. They needed Banner, and fast. And where the hell was Thor?

"What the – JARVIS, scrap that. I've found one."

He could see, through slight adjustment to his visuals at about 50% magnification, Loki looming over a wounded Thor on the tower. It was not a good sign if the demi-god – and if Tony was being perfectly honest with himself their most powerful team member next to Banner – was out for the count. Repulsors firing and weapons at the ready, Tony abandoned the giant flying eel and shot towards the tower.

. . .

"Now, I intend to make use of that heart of yours before it falters."

The blue glow of Loki's sceptre intensified and a low hum emitted from within its core, but before anything was able to pass from within the crystal to its metal tip a huge surge of energy hit his side and sent him flying across the concrete floor of the balcony.

"_As much as I loved our little talk earlier I'd appreciate it if you'd, y'know, get the hell off my property, if you insist on having one of your family feuds. The place is new."_

Tony landed on the balcony, hands at the ready for any sign of retaliation but eyes focused on the wounded demi-god slumped against the glass looking worse for wear. There was a loud grunting noise and a hiss of anger as Loki stood, a thin veil of smoke trickling from his garments and eyes seething with anger.

'_Fuck_.'

"You _are_ persistent," Loki breathed through gritted teeth as he steadied himself using his sceptre.

"_In case you hadn't noticed I'm not the quittin' type. Now what's it gunna be, the door? Or the balcony? Cos' I really don't care, either way you're getting a face full o' pain."_

Tony activated the rest of his artillery to standby, the repulsors on his gloves humming at the ready. With a quick jolt of his arm Loki fired a flash of blue energy at Tony who managed to dodge fast enough to come away relatively unscathed, retaliating by firing repulsors at the trickster god. There was much dodging of artillery before Tony was able to fly close enough to land a punch on the god's face, knocking the horned helmet clear across the balcony. Loki sneered as another attempt by the Iron Man met nothing but air, his clenched metal fist flying through an apparition of the smirking god before being flung through a window into his living room by a flash of blue. Loki chuckled from the far side of the balcony. Tony emerged, screen on his HUD flickering slightly and eyes focused intently on the enemy mocking him. The sceptre hummed and Loki readied himself to fire, pulling his arm back, as Tony raised his repulsors in response.

It was déjà vu. The two bolts of energy met in a glass-shattering and ear-ringing explosion that sent a shockwave through the top floor of the tower and threw both men clean off their feet.  
When the dust had settled, and Tony's suit had managed to reboot itself, he was met with both the satisfaction of breaking his enemy's beloved weapon, and the gut-retching disappointment of breaking his own. There was nothing but bad news on his HUD as it flickered erratically.

"_**Sir, all communication systems have been severely damaged, there is a critical malfunction in the propulsion turbines and power is rapidly depleting –"**_

"Dearly noted – and here I was thinking it was Christmas."

Flashing lights and text in a variety of colours filled the visuals of his HUD as error message after error message and the words 'CRITICAL MALFUNCTION' invaded his vision.

Loki stood, a little shakier than before, and examined the barely functioning weapon in his hand. The blue glow that had been ever-present was now barely a flicker at its core. The trickster sighed in exasperation and then his eyes, cold and raging, shot up to glare at Tony, who had yet to move from his rather awkward position, half on the balcony and half leaning over its edge.

Tony could hear the footsteps of his enemy over the screams in the streets below, but they were not approaching him. Tony managed to right himself, slumping away from the edge of the balcony, and noticed that Loki was not retaliating, but was instead more concerned with the Tesseract. Abruptly, the sceptre pierced the field of energy surrounding the glowing cube and, with careful adjustment, terminated the function of the machine. The portal immediately lost its stability, gradually closing to nothingness, with no trace that it was ever there. Tony raised his face plate to get a better look without the distraction of flashing error messages.

"I don't get it – why shut the portal down?"

Loki turned to face him, Tesseract hovering in one hand, the broken sceptre in the other. A breathy laugh escaped his lips before he conveniently removed the cube from sight – that is to say, it vanished in his hand in some strange warped constriction of space. The sceptre he tossed aside, no longer of use as he approached Tony and, leaning down, grabbed the man by the throat to pull him up toeye-level.

"Do not trouble yourself over matters that no longer concern _you,_" he said through a wicked smile.

"You're still on my planet – I'd say it's my concern," Tony choked.

He suddenly felt sick, like something bad was fast approaching that he could not avoid. He was right on both accounts.

"_Stark! You got - missile heading to - city, - thr - minutes away - Do - copy?!"_

It was Fury, his voice faint and choppy through a barely functioning coms system with yet more bad news. The god of mischief's smile grew into a terrifying grin as his eyes glinted through the shadow that veiled his features.

"It's _**my**_ planet now."

And just as those words flowed from his lips like hot liquid metal, his grip on Tony's throat loosened, dropping him from the edge of the balcony.

'_Déjà vu…'_

"_JARVIS! BACK UP POWER WOULD BE GREAT – __**ANYTIME NOW!**__" _Tony shouted as he spun down the side of the building at great speed before hitting several arms of the metal cranes. They broke his fall, literally knocking his backup power online in time to land awkwardly through an upturned cab, destroying it beyond all recognition as he skidded – face first – across the tarmac.

_'That could have gone a lot more smoothly_,' he thought, sluggishly rising to his feet.

If he had his facts straight had three minutes to stop a missile with little to no power in a suit that could no longer sustain flight. Things were looking pretty ugly – almost as ugly as the aliens that were screaming towards him with highly-dangerous-looking weapons spitting blue pulses of energy. Not good. Neither was the searing pain in his back and abdomen, come to think of it. He spat out a mouthful of blood before his faceplate lowered and his HUD lit up so he could assess the extent of the damage to the suit before the aliens were too close for comfort. He was still unable to use his comms to call for backup, and there was only enough power left for a few minutes of combat at the most. The flickering arc reactor in his chest was also not a good sign, either.

"Picked a fine day to play the hero, Stark," he muttered to himself, almost regretting his decision to pick a fight with the god of mischief.

_Almost_, that is.

. . .

Steve's clenched fist met metal and flesh as the ugly creature flew several feet through the air and into a nearby building. He had been fighting the alien swarms on the ground with Natasha and Clint, protecting civilians caught in the mayhem and clearing a path towards Stark Tower. It was complete chaos on the streets; Tony hadn't been keeping them posted on the situation from above, and Banner was still nowhere to be seen. Things weren't looking good from where the Captain was standing, shield at the ready, stained with spatters of inky blood and dirt, his eyes towards the sky. And that's when he noticed the bright blue beam shooting up from Stark Tower had disappeared and the portal above was closing, a low rumble like thunder bellowing from its centre.

Then things got a lot worse.

"_Captain! Do you copy!?"_

"Sir!" Steve responded instantly, raising a hand to his ear.

"_You've got a missile heading towards the city – I've tried getting through to Stark but he's not responding. You've a little over three minutes to get out of there, unless you can get through to him where you are. Where's Thor?!"_

Steve's mouth went dry.

A _missile_?! What the _hell_ was going on?!

Fury was still shouting down the comms when Steve realised he had not answered his question.

"… Sir, Stark's not with us and last I saw Thor was on Stark Tower. And it looks like someone shut down whatever was ripping that hole in the sky – it's gone."

The news that the portal had closed was obviously a concern to Fury, who was back monitoring the situation on his screens. He took a second or two to respond.

Something didn't feel right.

"_I can see that. Listen up, you and the rest of the team get the hell out of there now, do you copy?!"_

"Wha –"

"_Sir, I copy!"_

Steve looked over to Natasha, who had also been receiving the message over her coms and was fast approaching him after shocking the crap out of an alien with her Widow's bite. He frowned in disapproval at her response.

"No can do, sir, 'fraid the Quinjet took a rough landing. And I'm not runnin' when we still got a chance with Stark and Thor."

"_Captain there's not enough time - you find one of those alien jet-skis and you get out of there now! That's an order!"_

Steve lowered his hand and turned on his heel towards Natasha. Clint approached behind her but his eyes were glued to the skies.

"I need someone to clear me a path to Stark Tower –" Steve shouted before Natasha cut him off.

"–This is suicide –"

"Not if Stark or Thor is still alive, and I'm sure as hell not gunna run without tryin'."

"I've got your back," Clint nodded as he reached for another arrow. Steve nodded back and turned his head to Natasha who maintained her cold indifference before giving in.

"I'll find us a ride."

Steve smiled faintly but it did not reach his eyes, and made his way down the road.

"The second you find one, the two of you high tail it outta' the city – you got that?!"

Natasha thought about objecting, but before she could, Steve had already broken into a sprint towards the Tower, Clint's arrows flying past him as a swarm of aliens fell in his wake.

. . .

Thor's vision was blurry as he opened his eyes, wincing as the pain in his side continued to shoot through his body like thousands of tiny daggers tearing through his flesh. There was a strange quiet around him, the noises of chaos had become a faint ringing in the distance and he could smell the sea air. He was no longer in the heart of the city. Loki had teleported him and the unconscious Selvig to Liberty Island, perched atop the Statue of Liberty's torch, overlooking the trickling smoke that seeped from within the mass of towering structures. He tried to stand but could barely manage to right himself. His brother, looming over him, breathed a laugh as he watched him struggle.

"I was afraid you had drifted from consciousness all together," Loki sneered.

"Wha – what have you done with the Tesseract!?" Thor breathed through spasms of pain. He had noticed the portal had disappeared above the city.

"Is that all you can concern yourself with, really? I am disappointed in you – _you_, who _loves _this planet and the pathetic mortals that dwell upon it," Loki mocked, snorting in disgust.

"They are not safe as long as the Tesseract is in your hands," Thor responded through gritted teeth.

"There will _be no safety_ for them without _me_. The humans are reckless and self-destructive creatures. You insist upon branding _me_the enemy, but you fail to realise that it is not I who holds the dagger."

He laughed at his own choice of words in that moment. "Well, not now, in any case."

Thor's eyes narrowed in confusion, but he would see soon enough what Loki meant by those words. He could sense something was terribly wrong with the situation.

"Why are we here?" he asked, quietly.

"I wanted you to have the best seat for the main event," Loki breathed before moving as elegantly and as swiftly as a snake striking its prey, a hand gripping Thor's neck as he lifted him up from the ground. He moved in close, hissing the words through curling lips into his brother's ear and shaking with anger.

"So that you may witness, with your own eyes, the _**true extent**_ of your _**failure,**_ as man, woman and child _**burn**_ within the fires that their very protectors kindled, those protectors whom you place so much faith in. They are all alike, all deluded, and all fearful of what they cannot control. _**This **_is the only reason you still draw breath."

He threw Thor to the ground and circled him as he continued.

"When this is over, when the flames die, I shall rise from the ashes _**King**_ of a new world, a world made free from the very _**illusion**_ of freedom that humanity's false saviours continue to promise them. Subjugation is in their nature. They are lost without the guidance of a true leader."

Thor stared at his brother, a mixture of horror and rage upon his features as he dared to ask the question.

"What of these flames- what is it that you speak of!?"

Loki sneered; no sooner had he uttered those words did a deep, earth-shuddering rumble fall upon his ears, growing louder with each fleeting second. In his panic Thor ignored his aching wound and practically leapt to his feet, stumbling against the rusting metal bars so that he could see what was fast approaching on the horizon. Lifting his arm towards the city, he summoned Mjolnir. It would take agonising seconds for the speeding hammer to reach him before death itself would engulf the millions that still fled in terror within the narrow passages of Manhattan.

"It is pointless," Loki sniggered. "Their fate has been sealed."

The rolling thunder from the sea grew louder, but it was also met with the sound of Mjolnir breaking through the air in a super-sonic boom as it caused the water beneath it to stir, great peaks and troughs of sea and spray. Just as the hammer was reunited with its master, the missile sped past them with a furious rush of noise and air. Thor spun the hammer as quickly as he could with what little strength remained within him and followed. It did not take him long to reach the device, grasping onto it as best he could and shifting its direction so that it changed its course from a true line to a gradual curve. He knew what had to be done to save all those people; to save his friends.

And Loki remained still, watching with eyes glittering with disbelief as his brother carried the missile into the heavens.

_Fool._


	3. Heroes

Ok, this one came as naturally to me as breathing. I love it when the words just come to you :'). Thanks again to npeg for the editing and the advice! xx

To get you in the mood I suggest the following tracks:

"Forgive Me" - Patrick Doyle (Thor soundtrack)  
"Time" - Hans Zimmer (Inception soundtrack)  
"The Fight Will Be Your Own" - Steve Jablonsky (Transformers: Dark of the Moon soundtrack)

I don't own anything etc. (apart from OC)

* * *

Heroes

Barely a minute had passed since giving his orders to his team, or what remained of it, before Steve had reached the lower structure of Stark Tower. The street was swarming with Chitauri soldiers and Clint's cover would offer onlysmall relief for an attack of that volume. But it did not stop the soldier from sprinting into action, shield flying through the air and knocking a good portion of the unsuspecting aliens out with a single throw. He leapt over to retrieve it from a carpet of bloody enemies when he noticed a sight that gave him a glimmer of hope in the desperate minutes they had left. It was Stark, rather worse for wear but still standing as he looked on at the herd of Chitauri that was fast approaching from the ruins of the street.

"Stark!" Steve shouted, running over towards the Iron Man who turned, lifting his faceplate to reveal a pale and weathered Tony, a trickle of crimson running from the corner of his lips.

"Stark! There's a –"

"– A missile, I know, I got the call. My comms' transmitter is down, and so are the repulsor turbines and 89% of the other systems –"

"– You gotta' get up there before it's too late –"

"– Steve, You're not listening to me! The _**suit – can't – fly**_!" he shouted, eyes wide with raw emotion. He breathed deeply and stared over Steve's shoulder, swallowing hard with a look of true fear in his eyes. "…I _can't_."

Steve's mouth went slack for a moment before he pursed his lips and turned his gaze from Tony to the approaching alien horde.

"We need to find Thor –"

"– He's down for the count," Tony bit out, "Loki got him."

Steve let out a loud sigh in defeat.

_This was it_.

He closed his eyes and readied his shield. If he was going to die then he would damn well go out fighting. Tears and panic weren't going to stop fate.

"You still got enough juice in that thing to give these guys a little going-away present?"

Tony wanted to laugh, even just a little, he really did, but knowing what was fast approaching stopped it in his throat, and he could only crack a weak half-smile before turning to stand by Steve's side.  
And just as they prepared to fight one final time, there was the roar of an aircraft above them and blue light rained down upon the mass of aliens before the craft settled between the smouldering corpses and the two Avengers, with Natasha and Clint onboard.

"I thought I told you two to take off," Steve shouted.

"You did. But I chose to ignore you," Natasha replied. "Now get on before I regret it."

Steve and Tony made a move towards the craft but stopped dead in their tracks as the earth began to shake, loose shards of concrete trembling upon the fractured surface beneath their feet and a deep rumbling sound grew above.

"Shit," Clint muttered.

Time was up, it seemed. But what they did not expect was a flash of red that held fast to the source of their fear as it appeared to be moving far more vertically than horizontally.

"Son of a gun… " Steve breathed.

Thor had managed to save the city from certain disaster by carrying the missile into the upper atmosphere. There were smiles of relief, but they were short lived as the sky rumbled above them and a distant blinding light burst like a fleeting second sun.

No matter what legend had to say, no god was coming back from that alive.

Their moment of realisation was interrupted by another swarm of alien scum that began to fire at them. Clint was quick to react to the few that attempted to attack him from behind, as was Natasha, but Steve did not see the two that were wielding powerful looking guns and fast approaching him from a blind spot. Good job Tony did. Bad thing was he didn't retaliate.

Tony leapt behind Steve and took the full force of the blast to his chest plate. The hit knocked both men off their feet in a bright flash of blue that was followed by a cloud of black smoke and dust. Clint took the initiative by ensuring their attackers had a couple of arrows lodged in their eye sockets for their trouble.

The heavy grey veil of dust slowly dissipated around him, and Steve pulled himself up, head pounding and spinning as a warm liquid dripped down his brow and a dull pain climbed its way up his side. He crawled towards the silhouette that lay motionless, catching flashes of tarnished gold and red as the light began to fight its way through the blanket of dust. Tony lay on his back, his chest plate cracked and broken. Its red sheen was blacked, and parts of the metal that surrounded the arc reactor at its centre were burnt and deformed like crumpled tinfoil, the blue light barely flickering as the device made a strange crackling sound with every fading pulse of energy. Tony's faceplate was still raised and though he was still alive, he was barely conscious, drowsy and mouth bloody.

"Tony!" Steve choked as he finally reached his team mate.

Tony coughed, blood spattering from his mouth and eyes blinking tightly.

"Remind me again why… it's a bad thing… to just… cut the wire?" he managed to say through deep rasping breaths. An attempt at humour, even when his chest felt like Steve had used it as a punching bag or it had been privileged enough to meet with the Hulk's fist. So much for that guy; he was still missing.

Steve smiled faintly and lowered his head, more relieved that the guy was still alive than impressed at his reckless act of heroism.

"Jesus, Tony, you take self-destructive to a whole new level," Natasha breathed as she knelt down to assess the damage.

"It's not all bad. Suit's still functional enough to administer painkillers." He smiled, thankful that the drugs had finally started to do their thing and numb everything, because _everything_ had felt like it was pretty much totalled under there. "I actually feel a lil' warm and fuzzy right now."

For a guy on his last legs he looked as high as a kite.

"We need back-up," Natasha raised a hand to her ear to call for assistance.

"Better make it quick, the city's still swarming with those things," Clint added, an arrow at the ready as he assessed their surroundings. It wouldn't be long before more of them would descend upon the battered group.

Natasha began to call down the comms before Fury interrupted…

. . .

The pilot of another SHIELD aircraft, flying not far behind his comrade, flicked open the small protective cover on his gearstick with his thumb to reveal a small red button, pressing it without hesitation. His cloudy blue eyes watched as the final gift of death was successfully delivered, making its way across the open sea towards the coast.

. . .

"_What do you mean there's another_!?" Natasha breathed.

Steve lifted his head and the group looked at each other in disbelief.

_What the hell was going on?_

"_I __**mean,**__" _Fury's voice was desperate, but still had that air of control, somehow. _"The council has lost their shit and there's __**another missile**__."_

Silence. Then Natasha spoke.

"Understood."

She pushed herself up and made her way towards the alien craft still humming behind them.

Steve stood quickly, causing his head to spin as the concussion began to worsen.

"These people, the city –"

"– can't be saved," Natasha interrupted. "Stark's down, there's nothing we can do to stop it."

He knew that Natasha was right, of course she was, but running wasn't something Steve was ever comfortable with. Even when the bullies kicked him down he refused to run, and the same applied to everything else in his life. He wanted to stay, to cling on to the fading light in the hope that they could stop it. Fate had been merciful the first time, but escapes like that rarely came in pairs. It still made no difference to Steve, though, who stood his ground, consumed by his pride.

He wasn't afraid of death; he was afraid of living to see it happen to other people. Good people. Innocent people.

Millions of them.

What followed in those crucial minutes was a blur. Fragments of moments laced with the chaos and confusion that smothered them all. Steve's concussion had affected his vision and hearing and there seemed to be no real sense of time; so much happened as if in slow motion. Clint dragged Tony onto the small alien craft. The sounds of screaming, both human and alien, mixed with sirens and car alarms, echoed down the ruins of New York City's streets in a dull and muffled tone. Dust clouded the sky, and the smell of fires and fresh blood stung Steve's nose and burned his eyes as a firm hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him towards the craft. But his eyes continued to study the chaos in the distance, so many people running for their lives and so many more lying motionless amongst the rubble that littered the road. He vaguely remembered Natasha shout something before the four of them were flying at great speed away from it all, away from everything they had failed to save.

Then the chaos of the city became more distant, encased within the skyline of Manhattan Island, only pale trickles of smoke offered any signs of the madness that had consumed it. And then a bright light, a wave of cold air that made his eyes sting, and where once a lively city stood atop the shimmering ocean, a cloud of smoke and death reached out towards the heavens. As the cloud began to shrink into the distance behind them, Steve turned away. He saw Clint, a hand resting on Tony to keep him stable, staring grimly at the devastation they had left behind. Tony was barely conscious but seemingly aware of the situation.

Natasha had not looked back once.

. . .

They left one scene of chaos only to enter another as Natasha landed as quickly and gracefully as she could on the Helicarrier runway. SHIELD agents, airmen and medics flooded the platform and hands reached for Steve as he stepped wearily off of the craft. There were voices shouting orders and names, hands pulling at Tony's battered, armoured body before disappearing amongst the crowd of uniforms on a stretcher. Natasha and Clint waved off the prying medics and demanded to see Fury, but before he could speak up Steve felt himself fall back atop a soft surface as he was stretchered away from the concerned glances of what remained of his team.

The atmosphere was a sea of noise, voices shouting orders, the scurrying of feet and the erratic beeping of machinery. Steve's blurry vision turned away from the bright artificial lighting of the ceiling to his side where he could vaguely see flashes of red and gold through a wall of medic uniforms. Wires and tubes streamed from monitors and in between bodies of the medics frantically attending his fallen comrade, the sound of metal grating metal as they desperately attempted to remove as much of the armour as possible to treat the broken body beneath. Steve could barely move, only managing to mutter Tony's name before darkness took him, and only silence remained.

. . .

It was dark when he woke, the noises from earlier only ghosts of the memory that burned in his aching mind. Steve winced as he rose from the bed and groped his side, where fresh white bandages smothered his abdomen, and small spots of red appeared as his movements pulled at the wound. Blinking a little, his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the hallway that seeped through the open blinds of the window. It was eerily quiet. No steady beeping of a life support, no breathing apparatus, no voices. Nothing, save his own deep breaths as he rose to his feet and hissed at the dull ache in his side. There was a curtain that separated him from the bed where he had last seen Tony before he blacked out, but when he pulled it aside it was empty, its sheets uneven and crimson-stained, in places.

Steve's hand hovered over the tattered linen as he froze before the emptiness. Closing his eyes and swallowing back a flood of pain he placed a hand on the bed and uttered something like a prayer. It was all he could do in that moment to resist the growing urge to break down and fall beneath the weight of all that they had lost that day. After a while he opened his eyes again, sniffed and raised his hand from the sheets to turn, but his foot kicked something metal beside the bed. He bent to pick it up, discovering that the object shone gold in the dim light of the room. He held it up to get a better look at it, and there, in his callused hand, was Tony's armour faceplate staring back at him with hollow eyes, no longer the face of the great hero that so many had grown to love and fear, but an empty shell, abandoned and without its owner. Steve closed his eyes tightly at the expressionless mask in his hand. He could not stop the tear that fell down his bruised cheek and landed on the tarnished gold mask staring back accusingly. There was a soft rustling noise behind him. Fury.  
Steve didn't have to turn to know it was him.

"Doesn't matter what they say. This, it…It never gets any easier," Steve spoke quietly as Fury took a few steps towards the bed, arms behind his back.

"Stark showed all of us his true colours today. He was a good man – a hero," Fury answered, carefully.

"Is that what we are - _heroes_?"

"There was nothing you could have done to save them, or Stark. You know that."

Steve recalled his last vision of Manhattan as it disappeared in a cloud of unfathomable destructive force. He had never witnessed anything like it before, and according to history this was what had ended the war with Japan all those years ago. He had buried Hydra's deadly ambitions in a frozen wasteland along with himself, a sacrifice to avoid such a catastrophe. But nearly 70 years had passed and very little had changed after all. In all those years he had slept, the world had continued to turn, generations playing witness to death and destruction at the hands of men like Schmidt who never set foot onto the battlefield themselves. Men who gave orders that they hoped would bring swift victory at the simple utterance of a command, the push of a button.

His jaw clenched.

"He was right," Steve said sternly as he gripped the golden mask tightly in both hands, "We're not soldiers. And we're not heroes either. Not when it's the lives you're fightin' to save that take the fall, and not your own. Wars in _this _world aren't fought by soldiers. They're lost by men."

"The world_ still needs_ _you_, Captain."

"Does it? When things got tough out there someone decided to take the easy way out. That decision cost civilian lives, all cos' there was no faith in the fight. So you tell me that they still need Captain America, and then maybe I'll have a little faith in the world."

"We've all made mistakes. But understand that what took place today was beyond our control, and those responsible will answer for it, I assure you."

The silence of the room enveloped him as he closed his eyes. Visions of the battle, the lives he had failed to save in the countless bodies paving the streets, and the last glimpse of his beloved city before it was erased from existence in a matter of seconds all flickered within the darkness like a silent projection. Mistakes were unintentional; in what way was using a weapon of that magnitude considered a mere mistake when the consequences were so apparent? No. Firing those missiles wasn't the mistake. The real mistake was something much smaller, with far more power than any human could possibly imagine.

He squeezed the mask in his hand tighter, until its sharp edges, coarse like the rim of a tin can, began to dig deep in his hands. Narrow reservoirs of thick blood, almost black in the dim light, appeared between pale skin and tarnished gold. He should have felt the pain – he _wanted_ to feel it – but his body was numb.

"With all due respect sir, I'd like to be alone for a while."

There was nothing that would have convinced Steve to forgive what had been done that day. Fury understood and turned to leave, but before doing so he paused to offer a few last words.

"Stark realised the _value_ of a soldier today. The _world_ may have forgotten that, but I still have faith in the fight. I still _believe_ in _heroes_."

Steve's heavy eyelids lifted as the words flooded over him, awakening memories that forced him to relive moments from two eras. When Tony had taken the hit for him, covered him, just as Bucky had before he fell to an icy grave and into memory. But Bucky was a soldier. Tony… Tony was… Come to think of it, was he any different? …_Really?_

He placed the mask on the empty bed, leaving smudges of deep crimson along its edges, and stared at the lifeless face before him. Another tear left a trail down his cheek and he raised a hand to wipe his eyes.  
He stopped as he noticed his blood-smeared palm.

'_We've all made mistakes.'_

* * *

Pls don't hurt me! If it makes you all feel any better this was emotionally crippling to write, and I've got the rest of the story to get onto paper too so I am burdened with ultimate feels everyday ;_;

As usual, comments and feedback welcome and appreciated! xx


	4. Legacy

OK! So here's the next chapter! Man, this was pretty much written out weeks ago really but I needed to add more to it to really get the story going now. I hope you enjoy! No beta test for this chapter as my good friend npeg is away, so I hope it still reads well :)

I don't really have any song recommendations for this chapter (I'm sorry!), but anything with a slight solemn feel I guess?

Again, I don't own anything, characters, names etc. Any OC character names and likeness to actual names is purely coincidental.

Thanks again, and reviews encouraged! :) xx

* * *

_Legacy_

"_The past week, what many have dubbed 'The Coming of Armageddon', has been one of the darkest in recent history, as the nation and the world mourn those who perished in the devastation of New York City. The casualties are estimated to be in the millions, and it is feared that thousands more may be at risk of –"_

"– _Cemetery, where the burial of billionaire Tony Stark, former owner of Stark Industries and the face behind the great Iron Man, is taking place. It is a sad day as one of the world's most celebrated scientific minds of our time –"_

"– _Speculation over those behind the Manhattan Incident. There have been claims that it was the act of terrorist extremists, but as yet there have been no official statements made public to confirm who is responsible for the –" _

"–_That Tony Stark – the __**great **__**Iron Man**__ – and the reportedly sighted old War-time icon __**Captain America**__ were unable to save the countless souls who perished in New York almost a week ago. The relatives of the victims are angry at the continued silence of suspected government officials as well as the questionable allegiance of these __**self-proclaimed heroes**__ who fled the city before –"_

"– _Of an alleged __**alien invasion**__, the strange light on Stark Tower, or that Stark Industries may have in fact been involved in the creation of a new WMD that hit Manhattan. What the people want to know is–"_

"_**The question on everyone's lips –"**_

"_**Who is responsible?"**_

A long barricade of black suits stood between the horde of news cameras by the road and the modest burial that took place within the cemetery. It was a grey and dreary morning, one that Steve was hoping to forget but that would relentlessly be forever burnt into his memory. He didn't really know the man in the coffin.

But he knew Tony Stark.

In the short time he had been in his company there had been an exchange of words, however many of them had been bitter and hurtful, and the only time they had really avoided ripping each other's throats out was when duty called. Stark's name had been plastered everywhere and Steve had read his file so it had been virtually impossible to not know about the guy, and he had had a pretty good impression of the kind of man Stark had become. But who he _really_was had come to light and faded quicker than the fleeting lifespan of a mayfly.

Steve wished he could have gotten to know _that_man better.

The man who saved his life.

He stood amongst the small crowd of mourners, dressed in his military uniform, the only person not wearing the customary black apart from Rhodey, who was stood by Pepper's side holding an umbrella over the both of them. He too was wearing his uniform. The sound of the rain thundering on the thin fabric of umbrellas was all that Steve could hear. It drowned out the sermon and the quiet sobs of those who truly cared for the man in the casket. His thoughts wandered from this solemn scene to another…

. . .

_Fury stood before the sad__-__looking group around the table. Natasha and Clint sat side-by-side with Steve opposite on the far end, next to Agent Hill. Each person could not face the others as they sat in silence, still unable to come to terms with what had happened, until Steve broke that silence by slamming a fist into the tinted glass table. Tiny spider web cracks formed beneath his hand.  
The others jumped at the noise, looking at him with growing uneasiness, but Fury remained standing with his usual quiet confidence._  
_  
"What I _**want **_to know is _**what**_ in _**God's name**_ made you think using the Cube was _**ever **a_ good idea in the first place?!" Steve shouted, his eyes focused on the fractured glass as he seethed with anger. It was a rare sight to see him lose his temper, and it made all of the agents on the deck incredibly and obviously uncomfortable._

"_You __**saw**__ what it was used for, in HYDRA. You _**knew **_what it _**could**_ have done. There was a __**reason**__ it fell into the ocean and you people __**ignored**__ that fact."_

_Fury stepped forward and placed his hands on the back of an empty chair before responding. "It was a risk, but one we were willing to take when the benefits were so high."_

"_But the cost was a lot higher than you expected, right?" Steve said impetuously, his eyes shifting to meet Fury's as the anger simmered behind them._

"_That missile was not our call –"_

"–_I wasn't talking about that," Steve interrupted, "I was talking about Loki. The portal into outer space? _**You're **_the reason he's here. If you hadn't tampered with it then we wouldn't be looking for an alien psychopath right now or asking ourselves why New York's a _**smoking crater**_!"_

"_He's got a point."Clint said after finding the guts to speak up. Fury glared at him._

"_Well playing the blame game isn't going to help us find Loki __**or**__ the Tesseract. I suggest we save this and get to work tracking him." Natasha said coolly._

"_Already on it. Agent Sitwell's team is scanning for him now –" Maria added._

"– _And what makes you think it'll be the same scene as Stuttgart, or he'll even have the Cube on him?" __ Steve interrupted,_ "That's a blind alley you're walking down. He's already succeeded in breaking us apart and whatever he's got up his sleeve now won't involve being found– that plan's all wet."

"_What about using Banner's tech to look for gamma radiation? We could track down its whereabouts that way, right?" Clint suggested._

"_That gear was destroyed when _**someone**_ successfully managed to blow up the labs." Fury pointed out as he continued to glare at Clint. Natasha glared right back at the director in his defence. "We need him. I've got the team working on finding Dr. Banner as we speak."_

"_What about Selvig?" Maria asked._

"_No one knows what happened to him, chances are he was still in the city before…" Steve trailed off, recalling their escape. The rest of the group fell silent. They had lost more good men and friends that day than they cared to admit._

"_So what's Loki's play? He shut the portal down. Why?" Natasha asked. _

"_Maybe his army turned on him?" Clint said. _

"_Or __**he**__ turned on __**them,**__" Steve added._

"_I'm not sure…" Fury said, a wave of concern sweeping across his features. No one really knew what the hell he was up to and it just didn't make any sense when the chips had fallen in his favour. "But whatever he's got planned will involve the Tesseract, of that I'm certain."_

"_So what's the plan?" Maria asked._

"_We keep sweeping cell phones, security cameras, anything that can help us track down Loki or Banner. Inform every S.H.I.E.L.D agent on the globe. I want them looking around the clock for these two. We're on a tight schedule here people. The longer it remains in Loki's hands the greater the danger."_

Maria made to stand to join Sitwell and get to work but stopped when Steve spoke up.

"_It's a danger in anyone's hands," Steve said flatly. "And what happens when we find it? You people take it back?"_

_Fury stared at Steve but said nothing._

"_It doesn't belong here, like Thor said. You're like a kid who found his father's gun." _

_Steve rose from his seat and leaned over the table with clenched fists.__"__**I'll**__ find him, but not under your orders. Once he's captured, the Cube is going to Asgard, __**away**__ from you people."_

"_I'm done with S.H.I.E.L.D." He said bitterly before leaving the room._

. . .

The sermon ended and Pepper led the way, placing a red rose on its glossy black surface,peppered with droplets of rain water that streamed over its edges like thick tears. Rhodey followed suit, as did Happy and the few others behind him. Steve was the last. He placed the rose on the top of the pile, his hand lingering over the stem before finally letting go. He wanted to say something meaningful, he wanted to apologise for all of the things he ever said to him in the short time they had known each other, but most of all he wanted to thank him for saving his life. It was easy to feel sadness, to feel guilt, to be thankful, but saying those words when it all seemed too late was always hard. And it was never enough.

Pepper noticed his distant gaze as he stood before the coffin and walked over to offer him shelter under her umbrella, placing a comforting hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry for your loss." His voice broke as the words left his lips. Pepper smiled solemnly.

"Whatever he said to you, about not being special? He never meant that, you know."

Steve looked at her, his sad, blue eyes glassy.

"Natasha told me what happened. You have to understand, Tony was a damaged man. His father spent his life searching for you, and lost his son in the process. Tony became distant. I think he never felt like he could match what Howard had accomplished, creating the world's first superhero…" She said, turning to idly caress a rose petal, decorated with beads of rain water, disturbing them with her fingertips as she continued.

"… So finally getting to meet you was difficult for him. You're a living legend, and all that just… just reminded him of his father."

"I didn't know that… Howard was a good man. I respected him."

Pepper rested her hand on the black surface of the coffin and stared at her reflection through the small pools of water that rippled with every heavy drop of falling rain.

"Yeah, well he should have spent more time with his family. Tony never really spoke about him, he never wanted to, but he did learn from him. It's thanks to him that Tony was with us for a while longer. The arc reactor in his chest opened his eyes. He wanted to stand for something _more_ than his father's legacy. He wanted to create his own."

"I'd say he succeeded. I just… I wish I could take back everything I said," Steve muttered. Pepper turned to face him.

"What you said was the truth, and he knew that. He needed someone to stand up to him and tell him straight," she said, returning her hand to his arm. "The world lost someone very special when it lost _you_, Steve. I'd like to think Tony wanted to make sure it didn't lose you again."

She smiled softly up at him before turning to join the other mourners by the line of black Sedans and bodyguards fighting off the press. Steve followed, turning to glance at the coffin one last time.

Pepper paused at the open car door as Steve stood by to bid her farewell.

"I heard you'll be needing a place to stay," she said. Steve raised an eyebrow.

"Natasha said you're leaving S.H.I.E.L.D and won't set foot on the Helicarrier."

"For someone with a lot of secrets she's not very good at keeping them is she? She tell you everything?"

"She told me enough. Enough for me to have a room ready for you at Tony's place in Malibu so you can reconsider."

"My mind's made up. But thanks, I appreciate it, ma'am."

"Please. Pepper. We're friends," she said with a thin smile, "I'll have Happy collect your things when you're ready."

Steve nodded as she entered the car and he closed the door behind her. She rolled down the window to speak to him again.

"Think about it, won't you? Everybody's scared and confused right now, the public, the media. We're all in the dark, even S.H.I.E.L.D. They need you more than you realise."

The car drove off down the narrow road and Steve stood contemplating her words as the crowd gradually diminished.

. . .

"It's a bit of a mess at the moment but everything's working," Pepper shouted from across the living room, filled with heavy-looking boxes and metal crates.

Steve wandered in with a small bag of his personal belongings and the large, round, black protector on his back that held his shield, Happy following behind. Tony's house in Malibu was certainly something to Steve, a man who was used to the simpler things in life. A small apartment, a tent a few miles outside enemy territory, or a single room in a flying ship. One of the things that really struck him was the amount of glass in the place. He figured it was a strange choice for a man who had practically made his living blowing things up, who even built his own personal weapon in the same building. There was a lot of stuff to break, and by the look of some of the foundations, he probably _had_ broken a few things recently.

"Cosy…" he murmured through a wry smile.

"We were moving into Stark Tower…" she continued as she walked over to the curious soldier who stood awkwardly in the centre of the room. He looked so out of place, his dated hair cut and clothing, juxtaposed against the modern décor of the living space. "…but that's not going to happen now."  
Her eyes lingered on the device in her hand, fingers stroking the corners before handing it over to Steve.

"That's one of Tony's cell phones. I'll teach you how to work it if you have any trouble using it."

"Thanks. I'm still getting used to this," he said bashfully.

Her gaze on the phone lingered a while longer before she met Steve's eyes with a small smile.

"I'll give you the tour, and introduce you to the house keeper," she said, leading the way. Steve dropped his things for Happy to move to his room and followed the light-haired woman into the next room.

"JARVIS is in charge of the house and any incoming or outgoing calls or commands. If you need anything or are unsure about anything here, Jarvis will help you."

"_Happy to oblige, Miss Potts. Good evening, Captain Rogers."_

"Did the walls just talk?" Steve asked with a wry smile as he made a full 360-degree turn.

"That's JARVIS," Pepper added.

"_At your service,"_ the disembodied voice continued.

Any doubts over the house not suiting its former owner had well and truly vacated Steve's mind because this was definitely something beyond his understanding, and consequently, "very Tony".

"Okay, a talking house. Now I've seen everything."

Pepper took Steve through each room in the modern building and he started to think he quite liked the place, despite the confusing-looking technology on the walls and the seemingly English disembodied voice. They finished off the tour in Tony's private workshop on the lower level. That was the room that blew Steve's already spinning mind into the next realm.

"This is where he spent most of his time, and where most of his suits are stored. We started moving them over to New York, so what you see here is all that's left of them now."

Steve walked over to the wall of armour at the far end of the room. There was every suit up to the Mark IV in protective glass casing with fitted lights for the perfect viewing experience. It was quite a sight seeing Tony's greatest achievement towering before him in an ethereal light, but it also made him feel profoundly sad to know that they would never be worn by their creator again.  
Steve wasn't particularly fond of the suit if he was being honest with himself. It was a weapon just as easily manipulated as any other when put in the wrong hands, like HYDRA's experiments. But Steve also knew from Tony's file that he had felt the same way about such a technology being controlled by anyone other than himself.

'_The suit and I are one.'_

His words immortalised in the legacy that lined the concrete walls of the basement workshop. They were doomed to remain as lifeless reminders of lost knowledge and creative ingenuity, to remain encased like artefacts in a museum, to be seen but never worn.

Pepper was also finding it hard standing in the unnaturally quiet workshop. It dragged up too many memories, too soon for her to cope with as she averted her eyes and caught sight of the Iron Man poster on the corner-kitchen wall.

"Steve, I – I'm sorry, but I've got things to do, company related things, so if you need anything just ask JARVIS," she said in a broken voice, before making her way over to the door.

"Right… Thanks, Pepper," Steve said quietly as he managed to break his gaze with the shining armour and noticed her discomfort. He furrowed his brow with concern. "Will you be okay?"

She gave him a weak smile, the best she could manage. "I'm fine, don't worry about me. It's just going to take a bit of time that's all… Good night, Steve." She paused at the doorway before turning and hurrying up the stairs out of sight, before Steve could manage to bid her "good night" too.

He stood in the cold, quiet room, the only sound a low hum of the lighting and computer equipment set to constant standby. Nothing had been moved since Tony had last set foot there. Its tables were littered with armour parts, a partially completed glove, metal plating for repairs, some strange components Steve hadn't the faintest idea what they were supposed to do, and an empty coffee cup. It was organised chaos, but he figured that was probably Tony summed up, really.

He returned his attention to the armoury and thought real carefully about the situation he was in. He'd left the S.H.I.E.L.D environment, had taken refuge in his late teammate's partner's company and had to find a dangerous psychopath in a sea of almost seven billion people. If he was even still around. It was certainly nothing he couldn't handle – he was Captain America after all, the one who always keeps a level head, the man with a plan.

Steve sighed. He was fooling himself if he honestly believed that. He felt well and truly lost. The country was spiralling into dark and troubled times. Worry, rumours, and conspiracies plastered the front pages on the newsstands, tripped from the lips of influential speakers on the television and radio, and were conversation on the streets. And what worried Steve the most was that he honestly didn't know what was truth and fabrication anymore. Things were only going to get more difficult and dangerous from here, he could feel it.

Steve met the empty eyes of the Mark III in front of him, its chest plate scarred with blackened indentations, the only suit not restored, and he wondered why that was the case. Then something occurred to him. Stark had enemies in his own world, and some had been very close to home, according to his records. He had a few scars from the past, most of which Steve believed he kept well hidden to the very end, but some he had put on display, perhaps as a reminder of what it took to protect the people important in his life. People like Pepper.

So Steve made a promise to himself and to Tony, right there, in front of the armoury, that he would do anything and everything within his power to keep Pepper safe from harm.

He owed him that much.

. . .

'_Tonight's guest is someone who has recently been making headlines in the tabloids with claims that he has grounds to believe that there is a potential government cover-up regarding the Manhattan incident a month ago. Please welcome, my guest this evening, Mr. Christian Dermott.'_

A petite blonde woman in a tailored suit lounged in her desk chair, filing her nails as she observed through heavy mascara eyelashes a tall, presentable man with short black hair walk on the set of a popular television show that flickered on the TV screen in the lobby. There was a sound of laughter on the other side of the double glass doors in the room, a single voice growing louder as its owner approached the door and opened it, bidding the disembodied voice in the hallway good night before entering the lobby.

"Evening, Mr. Hammer," The petite woman said in a monotone voice, chewing on her gum as she continued to file her nails.

Justin loosened his tie and adjusted his grey suit jacket as he eyed the woman behind the desk momentarily before turning his attention to the TV on the wall.

"Janette, why do you watch this bull? Where's the baseball, or the football, or any other sort of sport that involves, I don't know, throwing or hitting something?" he said, turning his attention back and forth between the TV and his receptionist.

The woman merely glared at him through caked lashes, chewing slowly. Justin narrowed his eyes slightly before turning to face the TV again. A well-dressed man with short dark hair, probably in his late 30s, sat confidently with crossed legs on a leather seat on the set of the show, answering questions that the presenter was throwing at him.

'_You believe that Stark Industries has continued to provide nukes to the U.S military even after their apparent shift to green energy, and that it was a newly designed weapon used on the city of New York?'_

'_Stark Industries was and continues to be an arms dealer irrespective of what it claims to be. I have reasons to believe that it was a primary weapons provider not necessarily for the U.S military as such, but for a separate government organisation that most are unaware even exists. I intend to remedy that.'_

Justin raised an eyebrow, changing his mind somewhat about the quality and entertainment factor of the program. This was interesting.

"How was the meeting with Senator what's-his-name?" the petite woman said flatly in a tone that overpowered the voices on the TV. Justin turned.

"Oh, yeah it went well. Thank god money is still the language of politicians and judges. But freedom don't come cheap honey," he replied, his whiter-than-should-be-possible smile beaming at the small secretary across the room as he walked over towards the desk, sitting on its edge.

"Yeah, speaking of cheap, when do I get that raise you've been promising me?"

"Hey, hey!" he responded, raising his hands in mock defence. "Give me a break here. These things take time. But if the box over there is right then Stark Industries is going to hit one hell of a hail storm and hopefully, with Stark out of the picture, this company will open new doors. So you'll get your loose change when the green starts flowing."

"Don't you still have that little matter of the company's reputation to clear up? People haven't forgotten what happened at Stark Expo last year."

"Yeah, I'm working on that," Justin replied, loosening his tie and appearing more agitated. "Look, don't you have a pedicure or manicure to get to or something? Go on, get out of here. I shouldn't be working you this hard anyway."

He stood from the desk and walked towards his office doors, taking off his suit jacket. The petite woman glared at him, placing her nail file on the desk as she stood.

"Night, surrr," she slurred as his office doors closed behind him.

The room was dark, but there was enough light seeping through the large windows of his top floor office room to make out his usual trail to the bar on its raised platform. He tried flicking on the light switch there, but nothing happened. He tried again, and again, flicking the switch on and off several times, but nothing.

"Janette!?" he shouted towards the doors.

No reply.

He wandered back and opened the door, only to find a dark and empty lobby, its TV turned off, and the only light a distant one down the hallway. He huffed and closed the door, wandering back to his office bar to pour himself a scotch. The soft, ringing sound of the crystal decanter tapping the glass as he poured himself a generous measurement resonated within the silence of the room. Justin placed the decanter down on the bar and took a long swig of his drink. He felt quite uneasy in the silence and the dark, and for good reason, because the minute the whiskey hit his throat he swore he could hear someone laughing from within the darkest corner of the room. It was a very faint, breathy sort of laugh, almost like a snigger.  
Justin practically choked on his drink.

"What the f-… Who's there!?" he managed to shout as he continued to choke on the burning liquid that had ran down the wrong pipe.

He cautiously moved towards the other end of the bar, not breaking his focus on the dark corner of the room. His right hand strayed beneath the bar table to a hidden compartment and revealed a gun, immediately pointing it, rather shakily, at the darkness.

"You're t-trespassing and I'm armed!" he shouted, waving the gun in front of him for effect. His free hand frantically skimmed the underside of the bar for the panic button but he couldn't find it, all the while the mocking laughter become increasingly louder and harder to place. It seemed as though it was coming from every direction, including behind. Justin turned suddenly as he felt a cold breath of air brush past his ear, shakily pointing the gun at the empty space that was behind him. He turned a good 360 degrees, well and truly shook up as he backed away from the bar, turning at the slightest sound, still coughing on the alcohol at the back of his throat.

"I'm warning you, I _will_ use this!"

He approached his desk in hopes of using the phone to call security, but his hand froze as the laughter seemed to concentrate into one space as a voice, clear as crystal and thick as honey spoke from within the darkness behind him.

"Then shoot," the voice mocked.

Justin turned suddenly and fired the gun without even looking at the source of those words. Within the flashes of light, as he fired bullet after bullet, he could make out a tall, darkly clad figure. His dark hair flowed in tufts that rested just above his shoulders, framing a pale face that held two glinting eyes above a menacing grin. Justin yelled in horror as he stumbled backwards, landing on his ass beside his desk as the gun skidded across the floor underneath it. The dark figure loomed, unscathed, laughing mockingly at the terrified man before him. The laughter filled the room again, appearing and disappearing from every corner within those four walls.

"Justin Hammer, I presume?" the figure spoke amongst the continued laughter. "Let's have some light, shall we?"

With a flick of his wrist the mysterious figure managed to turn on the lights of the room, however he was nowhere in sight from Justin's view on the floor. Justin stood, shakily, and looked towards the doorway, only for the voice to make its presence known from behind him. He turned quickly to notice the figure sat on his seat behind his desk, legs crossed and an arm propped on the seat's armrest, his hand idly brushing his chin. He was well dressed, in a sort of black tailored suit with a white shirt and black tie, finished with a long black fitted-jacket and green and gold scarf. The man studied the shaken arms-dealer quizzically with steely green eyes.

"W-who the hell are you, and why are you in my office!?" Justin stammered, looking around momentarily for any signs of a forced entry.

"Is this how you treat all of your guests, Mr. Hammer?" The man grinned.

"No, this is how I treat god damn intruders and thieves, followed by a friendly visit from security, who'll be here any minute now since those gunshots. So why don't you get your scrawny ass out of my god damn chair –"

"That's quite enough of that," the man said flatly, raising his other hand from his lap to make a quick sort of brushing motion in the air as if he was drawing a short, straight line with his index finger.

Justin tried to continue his monologue but his voice had disappeared and not a single sound escaped his lips. He raised his hands to his mouth and throat, his face as white as a sheet (which was quite the achievement for a man who indulged in a tan every now and then) and eyes wide with fright behind his thick black-rimmed spectacles.

"Just to make this perfectly clear to you, _without_ interruptions…" the man glared at Justin to emphasise his point, "… There will be no security. This room is sound-proof. No one can hear anything that transpires from within these walls. And as for your security devices, well, there will be nothing out of the ordinary for other eyes to witness should you wish to refer to your recordings later."

Justin's eyes shifted to the doorway, but the man could already sense what he was thinking.

"I do believe that you will regret that, for you will have turned down a rather tempting opportunity. I am here, Mr. Hammer, with a proposition for you."

The dishevelled man raised an eyebrow as he turned his attention back to the mysterious man sat in his chair.

"My name is Loki. I, like you, have had a spot of bother in the past with a certain Mr. Stark and an organisation known as S.H.I.E.L.D. The man of iron has fallen from the chessboard; however there is still the matter of this group to deal with."

Loki leaned forward in the chair.

"As you have no doubt come to realise, I am no mere man. I have come into the possession of a power source that I believe will be of interest to you. It is something that S.H.I.E.L.D had attempted to control, but ultimately failed to do so. What I require from you is your expertise to utilise this power source not only to create weapons but to invent a device that can sustain energy like Mr. Stark had created. I understand that you may require secure knowledge from Stark Industries, and I am willing to help you gain complete control over all of their facilities and connections so that you may deliver your end of the deal to my expectations. For this, I also require from you any connections that you may have to the U.S. military and government."

Loki stood from the seat and practically glided around the desk to face the gobsmacked arms-dealer. He smirked.

"I guarantee you control over _all_ of Stark's company and personal technology with which, I expect, you will provide me with suitable means to strengthen this country's military forces."

He raised his hand and made the same motion in the air again, this time to break the spell.

"Well, do we have a deal?" he said, holding out his hand.

Justin smiled. It was almost too good to be true. He'd finally have complete control over the Iron Man suit and the latest arc reactor technology. With his smile growing ever wider and more genuine, Justin took the tall man's hand firmly and shook it.

"You bet we do, _friend_."

* * *

Ok! So Loki's back in action and has something up his sleeve. I've not revealed too much at this stage because that'll come in the next chapter or the one after that, but I hope it will be quite an exciting reveal and trust me, the story should start picking up the pace and actually seem more interesting now. Thanks for all of you who have continued to read despite the slow start to this story, but I believed it was necessary to fully establish the situation that the characters are in.

Again, thanks for reading! And please comment if you have time, I really do appreciate any reviews. It helps me improve my writing. :) xx


	5. Are We The Enemy?

OK! First of all sorry for taking a while to get this up. This chapter was really hard to write because not only was it very plot heavy but also not as exciting as some of the future chapters I've got penned down. Don't worry though - you're getting closer to the better stuff now. This chapter and the following chapter I am currently writing is sort of the build up to the storm. And I know it is taking a while to introduce other characters (including my OC), but you'll find out why very soon I promise! Chapters 1 - 6 are kinda what happens before the main events of this story, so there is a background, a foundation to work from which will hopefully benefit the fic as a whole when it is complete. And believe me, you're in for on hell of an adventure. I've got this bad boy penned down to the last chapter, so it's just a case of writing it out in full :)

Music of choice is:

"Am I The Enemy" - The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus (as you can probably guess I got the title for this chapter from this, sort of ^_^')

"All The Rage" - Funeral For A Friend

"City Of Delusion" - Muse

"Code Name Vivaldi (Bourne Soundtrack/Vivaldi Double Cello)" - The Piano Guys (This was a random one but really sets the mood for the last third of this chapter :P)

As usual, I don't own anything etc. Enjoy!

* * *

_Are We The Enemy?_

'_You could have the power of the Gods! And yet, you wear a flag on your chest and insist you fight a battle of nations!'_

_The high-pitched hum of Schmidt's hand gun followed his words as he pulled the trigger, the blast barely missing the soldier as its sound resonated within the cold steal walls of the aircraft. Steve moved cautiously behind the large metal beams as his enemy continued._

'_I have seen the future, Captain! There are no flags!'_

'_Not my future!' Steve bit back before diving for his shield and throwing it right into the gut of the HYDRA leader, sending him hurtling backwards into the Tesseract's holding chamber. It hummed and screeched within an aura of sporadic blue waves of energy that erupted into a bright flash of white light before fading to a dull blue glow._

'_What have you done!?' Schmidt breathed as he stumbled forward to assess the damage, grasping the blue cube within a leather-clad hand. _

_For a moment it barely flickered - a fraction of the brightness it had possessed only seconds earlier, and then suddenly it began to almost… speak. It shrieked, an unearthly noise, as pulses of blue energy erupted from within its chore, and the sterile metal roof above them melted away into an alien night sky. The cube then became more unstable, burning brighter than ever before, and more volatile. It seemed to burn away the hand of its master within a ribbon of light and colour that shot up into the strange void of space above them, gradually spreading to claim the rest of him. Then, just as quickly as it had awoken, the cube ended its display of power and the bright light recoiled, returning to its blue prison. _

_Schmidt was no longer stood holding the Tesseract in hand…however…_

…_It did not fall and find its way into the ocean as Steve had remembered. _

_Instead, the Red Skull was replaced with another more threatening figure that towered menacingly within the metal structure of the plane, his long fingers snaking over the source of Steve's fear as its blue glow cast frightening shadows across his smirking face. _

'…_L-Loki!?' Steve breathed through trembling lips, his blue eyes wide with genuine fear._

_The trickster's smirk grew into a wicked smile as he spoke four words that drained the colour from the soldier's skin._

'_Welcome … to __**my **__future - ' _

. . .

Steve jolted awake, sweating and barely able to catch his breath. He had been plagued with nightmares of his past life ever since waking up in the unfamiliar and equally troubling 21st Century, and the tragic events that took place in New York had recently joined them. However, this nightmare was different; it was the first to deviate from actual memory, and it terrified Steve.

His fingers dug deep into the mattress, and it took him several minutes to compose himself and remember where he was – _when_ he was, even.  
He managed to break free from the strangle hold of his memories long enough to allow his tired eyes to focus on his surroundings. The room was dark, with the exception of the unnatural green light of a digital alarm clock placed on his bedside table. The screen read "3:45 AM" in slender digits. He pinched the bridge of his nose before wiping a hand over his face, catching the beads of sweat that glistened on his forehead with his palm as he brushed back the messy blonde tendrils of hair from his brow. It was not uncommon for him to wake at such early hours of the morning, and he rarely managed to get more sleep when the adrenaline was playing his heart strings like a harp. In cases such as this he would make the most out of the situation – head down to the gym for a long workout.

He turned on the light of the en suit bathroom and ran the cold water tap, supporting himself against the sink for a moment as he stared into the tired eyes that glared right back at him from the mirror. A few splashes of ice cold water and deep breaths later he was ready to head downstairs to take his mind off of the growing exhaustion that was becoming apparent on his face.

Steve had been residing in Tony's Malibu mansion for around a month, and in that time he had managed to get a routine going as well as figure out how to work some of the technology there– the coffee machine was the first. He'd usually head down to Tony's personal gym for a couple of hours first thing in the morning, favouring the Kevlar punching bag which he discovered was a good way of releasing all of the built up tension that had been threatening to tear him apart recently. He'd been searching for Loki with help from JARVIS as well as waiting for any news from S.H.I.E.L.D, though he didn't really keep in touch much these days. The riots and growing anxiety on television had been the constant flame that kept his growing anger simmering beneath the usual composure he maintained for Pepper's sake.

Modern society was a huge disappointment despite the technological advances and apparent liberal way of thinking. It felt lonely, recluse, and constantly in a hurry. People hardly took the time to talk to one another face to face (if they even had the time to talk at all), favouring their cell phones and computers instead. Television was a noisy concoction of crude entertainment, cheap laughs, insurance commercials, and worrying news. He felt an immeasurable degree of sadness for the youth of society and how much they would have to shoulder for future generations to come, because their predecessors had forgotten what people like Steve had _really_ fought for all those many years ago. People had become increasingly selfish and greedy over the decades, not to mention less willing to hold onto a belief that the dawn would come if you kept on fighting the darkness.

But very few these days really believed in fighting the good fight or persevering during hard times. People wanted quick solutions to long-term problems, straight answers to difficult questions, and less responsibility for the consequences of their actions. But most worrying of all to Steve was the blatant need to find someone or something to blame for everything – and that extended far beyond your typical lawsuit. Everyone seemed so caught up in pointing the finger at anyone but themselves, when in truth that was where the source and solution to most problems was often found.  
Society itself had become its own worst enemy.

There were days he would question what he really felt when he looked at that star spangled banner, whether he still felt the old swell of strength and pride he remembered back in the war, or what he saw in the distant eyes of the people he would pass on the street. The closer he began to feel himself drifting towards the latter the more empty it made him feel, and the more punching bags he would go through in a single morning.

Today was no different.

By the time he had totalled his third bag of the morning it was a little past 6 AM, and Steve figured that was enough, so he hit the showers.

. . .

The cool air of the hallway was a welcoming relief as he left his quarters, dressed in a simple white T-shirt and beige slacks, idly drying his hair with a small plush white towel as he made his way towards the living room.

Pepper was sat on the edge of the sofa next to a pile of important looking documents, legs crossed in her usual smart tailored jacket and pencil skirt combo. Recent news was playing on the wide screen TV in front of her, and as usual it was more of the same thing that had followed the loss of Manhattan. Riots, looters, protestors, religious extremists, scandals – particularly relating to Stark Industries – and Steve felt his stomach turn just watching the images flicker on the screen.

"Morning," Pepper smiled at him. It was a weak smile though; Steve could tell that the weight of problems caused by the media was beginning to take its toll on her, regardless of how strong-willed a person she was. In putting up with Stark she had practically forged an invisible iron suit of her own, but Steve constantly wondered how she managed all those years without going completely off the rails. Stark's absence wasn't any easier for her either.

"Mornin'," Steve responded with his trademark lop-sided smile before rubbing his face with the towel. The smell of fresh coffee was enticing and he walked towards its source in the adjacent room where a coffee pot was sat on the bar.

"You're up early – it's almost 7," she added, eyes focused on the pile of papers now on her lap.

Steve poured himself a cup of java and wandered back into the main living space, the towel draped over his shoulders as he sipped the strong black liquid. He made a contented sigh of approval, thankful that the caffeine was starting to push back the exhaustion that had been sneaking up on him over the past few weeks.

"Couldn't sleep, so got an early work out… what about you?"

"I'm up to my elbows in paperwork. With Tony gone I'm finding it hard to keep his vision alive. The board and Tony never exactly saw eye to eye when it came to changing the company's approach to green energy, and with all of the rumours…" She trailed off as recent snippets of the Stark Industries scandal on the TV interrupted her.

"Mute," Steve commanded JARVIS, who obliged, and a short, heavy silence fell about the room.

"Any news on Loki?" She asked him, cautiously.

Steve paused for a moment, his thoughts briefly drifting to his recent nightmare before he was able to scamper out of the darkness again and return to the present. He shook his head slowly.

"S.H.I.E.L.D's got nothin'. I've asked JARVIS to help locate his whereabouts in any way he can, but so far no good. I'm starting to wonder if he's even on this planet anymore," Steve added.

Another lingering silence – then Pepper's cell phone buzzed curtly on the glass table and she reached over to answer it. By the look on her face it was something work-related and no doubt burdensome. After a few seconds she hung up and collected the mound of papers into a heavy looking folder and made to leave.

"I'm sorry, Steve, but I've got to get to the office. I'll see you this evening," she said to him before pressing a button on the touch screen pad of her cell phone and raising the device to her ear as she wandered out of the room.

"Okay -"

"–Happy?..." She called into the phone as she left.

And then Steve was alone.

He turned to watch the disturbing news reel on the widescreen TV against the wall. People – many of them young men and women – parading the streets of major cities across the country, holding anti-government and anti-Stark Industries picket signs. It was a scene that was making its way not only across his home country but also into other nations – a worldwide unrest that deeply troubled Steve. There was a war coming, creeping over the world like the growing shadow of a raging storm, but this war seemed different to the one he remembered before falling into his long dreamless sleep in the ice.

The news footage was then replaced with a recent broadcast of a popular figure making a speech in front of a crowd of supporters cheering him on. The man – Christian Dermott, he recalled – was making a name for himself in the public eye, and Steve had to admit that he certainly had a way with words.

He asked JARVIS to turn the sound back on.

'–_These government agencies – these officials who claim to hold the reins of this beloved nation, who claim to protect __**us**__, their people. They are, all of them, deceivers, and they seek to hide the truth from us, to keep us silent. But they cannot silence the human spirit, or -'_

**"**_**Captain Rogers, Director Fury is on the line and wishes to speak with you via video call. He says it is urgent." **_JARVIS interrupted, muting the broadcast.

Steve sighed and his shoulders slumped forward as he eyed the coffee mug in his hand.

"Patch him through," he murmured into his mug.

A large holographic screen appeared in the empty space in the centre of the room, revealing a concerned Nick Fury.

"_Captain, we have a situation." _

Steve lowered the coffee mug from his lips.

"Loki?" he questioned the director urgently. Nick shook his head.

"_No. I've got a global search ongoing, but still got nothing for you concerning Loki or the Tesseract. I'm afraid this is something else. Are you familiar with a man named Christian Dermott?"_

Steve raised an eyebrow.

"Sure – he's the guy on the box, the one behind all the protesting?"

"_Well, he's more than just another celebrity with a megaphone. This man knows things, things he shouldn't, and I wanna know why. More importantly, the __**Council **__wanna know why."_

"If this has anything to do with your trigger-happy bureaucrats, I'm out. They've made their bed, they can lay in it," Steve interrupted. The words left his lips before he realised what he was saying, and he took a long swig of his coffee as Fury eyed him hesitantly from the holographic projection.

"_Rogers, this is serious and you know that. Irrespective of what happened in New York it is in our best interest that we deal with this situation immediately before it escalates into something a lot worse than a few hippies with picket signs. If this Dermott character leaks any more classified information relating to S.H.I.E.L.D or its operatives, we'll have a witch-hunt on our hands. People's identities – their __**lives**__ – are at stake here. That goes for yours, too – and Miss Potts'."_

Steve's heart sunk. The last thing he would ever want on his conscience was Pepper's life at risk because of his pride. He had promised Stark that he would do anything to protect her, but swallowing his pride was going to leave a foul taste in his mouth if the Council had anything to do with it.

His jaw clenched.

"What's the plan?"

"_Dermott intends to lead a rally in Washington DC during the next couple of days. I've ordered Agent Romanoff and Agent Barton to keep a close eye on him and to find out who his sources are."_

"And what do you need me to do?"

"_Until we know how Dermott is getting this information I need you to lay low. Chances are he may know your identity, Captain. I'm already taking a risk sending out two of my best agents."_

"But if he knows, wouldn't he have said something by now? What's his game?"

"_I'm not sure, but we also have reason to believe that Dermott may have something to do with the rumours concerning Stark Industries, which brings me to the __**real **__reason I am calling you…"_

Steve eyed the director suspiciously.

"_Stark was able to hack into secure S.H.I.E.L.D files onboard the Helicarrier. Now I don't know if he had the chance to make a copy of them or if they are somehow drifting down the digital highway of his AI, but -"_

"–Hold on, are you sayin' Stark _**leaked those files**_? -" Steve interrupted fiercely.

"–_I'm not accusing Stark of anything but snooping and being Stark, but given the circumstances I can't rule anything out at this time. If someone in his company had access to them -"_

"–You want me to spy on Pepper and her work. Is that what you're asking me to do?" Steve bit out.

"_All I'm saying is we need to approach every angle. That information could be a gun in the hands of Stark's enemies, and he had a fair few of those both inside and outside the company."_

Steve swallowed a lump in his throat. _Jesus Stark, I hope to god that he's wrong and this isn't your doing, _Steve thought as he clenched his free hand by his side.

"_I'm sending someone over who will be able to offer both you and Miss Potts some assistance. I'll be in touch."_

The holographic screen faded away and Steve's attention returned to the TV monitor in front of him, delivering the images of his new enemy who continued to transform his crowd of supporters into a sea of cheering worshipers.

And in that moment, Steve felt a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as the realisation dawned on him. Many things _had_ changed since the war.

But history had a habit of repeating itself.

. . .

Pepper walked into the reception of Stark Industries looking worse for wear, already stressed from the media pressure practically ready to kick down the company's doors – metaphorically speaking, so far. On top of that the company itself was struggling, not only because of the rumours in the media surrounding Tony's involvement with a government organisation, but because the ARC reactor technology was costing more money than it was making, and Stark Industries wasn't doing too well as a potential investment.  
Her assistant scurried towards her with a somewhat nervous expression on her face.

"Oh - Miss Potts? There is a board meeting taking place upstairs. I tried to call you, but the line was busy -"

"–What!? When was this decided?" Pepper interrupted as she hastily made her way upstairs, not waiting for an answer as she burst through the doors of the board room. Most of the seats around the room's large table were occupied by middle aged men who appeared to be fairly displeased with Pepper's apparent lateness, despite her not knowing the meeting was even taking place.

"Please excuse me, but I'm afraid I didn't know there was a meeting this morning." She smiled apologetically, feeling their eyes on her as she turned to close the door.

"I'm sorry, didn't you get the memo?" a familiar voice called from behind the bar at the far end of the room.

Pepper turned and was shocked to see Justin Hammer pouring himself a glass of scotch, smiling to himself.

"It must've got lost somewhere on the system. I'll make a mental note to have that fixed in the near future," he added.

What the hell was he doing outside of a prison cell, pouring Tony's scotch in her company's building? Pepper gritted her teeth.

"I thought you were supposed to be behind bars?" she said, spitefully. Trying to stay composed and professional in front of the board was becoming an uphill struggle.

"And _I _thought you were supposed to be taking this company forward, not leading it on a wild goose chase over some utopian dream," he retorted, placing the decanter on the bar and making his way over to the table.

"I'm calling security-"

Hammer took a quick sip of the burning liquid and breathed a short laugh.

"That won't be necessary -" he grinned.

"–You have no business being here and as far as I'm concerned you're trespassing," she bit back.

"Actually…" he began, resting a hand on the back of a large leather seat – Pepper's usual chair since taking over as CEO. "…I have every reason to be here. You see, since this company took a nose dive in the stock exchange there have been more than a few frowns from your investors, and many of them decided to bail on you and sell. I on the other hand love a sense of adventure when it comes to business, and decided to buy a chunk of Stark Industries' stock."

He took a large swig of his drink as Pepper eyed him inquisitively.

"A wedge of it actually. In fact, I hold the majority out of all the people in this room. So, I'd say it's very much my business being here."

Pepper's eyes drifted nervously from Hammer's to the cold glares of the board members who remained silently seated at the table. This couldn't be happening…

"So…" Hammer began as he took his seat – Pepper's seat – and crossed his legs, making himself rather comfortable, "…as my first contribution as board member, I would like to address exactly _why it is _that this company is sliding down the proverbial ladder?"

"I have no intention of acknowledging or answering anything you say or ask because I don't believe for a second that you are here in the best interest of this company."

"Miss Potts. We would all appreciate that you cooperate with Mr Hammer. His question is a valid one and we would like an answer," one of the other board members interrupted as the rest awaited her response with inquisitive eyes.

Hammer shot her a shit-eating grin.

_Bastard._

She made her way over to the far end of the table by the few remaining empty seats, but did not sit.

"This company is going through a rough patch, yes, but -"

Hammer laughed.

"A _rough patch_? Now _that's_ the understatement of the week -"

"–_**but**_…" She continued, raising her voice, "Mr Stark believed – and _**I**_ believe – that this sort of risk and expenditure is necessary for the development process. The new ARC reactor prototype will be the first real step in clean sustainable energy the world has ever seen, and the benefits will far out weight the costs."

"But wasn't the prototype lost when New York was devastated?" another board member added.

"Yes, but -"

"_And_, if I've got my facts straight, wasn't Stark himself sort of a tinsy bit _**a lot **_responsible for that catastrophe as well?" Hammer followed, sarcastically.

"That is speculation. Mr Stark was not making weapons for the US military or government. He made that clear in an earlier statement to the press," Pepper bit out.

"Those things are a load of bull, pardon my French. Stark wouldn't say that he was dealing under the table because it would make him a hypocrite, hiding behind that shiny armour of his and pretending to be a superhero, when in reality he was just as human as the rest of us," Hammer bit back.

A short silence followed as he reached into a briefcase by the side of the table and pulled out a dark grey paper folder, pushing it across the tinted glass table towards Pepper.

"You'll find all you need to know about just how _super_ your hero_ really_ was. Right there, inside that folder."

Pepper hesitated before revealing its contents – a few sheets of paper that seemed to be copies of e-mails, encrypted conversations and even S.H.I.E.L.D related documentation. The majority of its contents was falsified data, made to appear legitimate in order to incriminate Tony for something he had not been involved in, but it was an admirable attempt and almost flawlessly mixed with truth when it came down to Tony's dealings with S.H.I.E.L.D as a consultant. Anyone none the wiser would instantly be convinced, but Pepper knew enough about the extent of Tony's cooperation with S.H.I.E.L.D to know that this was slander.

"No. _This _is bull. Its falsified documentation you are attempting to plant on the company and I can have you arrested right now," she said, placing the papers back into the folder and dropping it on the table.

"I don't think so. Isn't it _true_ that Stark was supposedly acting as a consultant for an organisation known as S.H.I.E.L.D, an organisation that has been involved with Stark Industries-related matters in the past?" Hammer questioned.

"Yes, but -"

"–And, isn't it also true that he provided them with Stark Industries patented technology?"

That was also true, to an extent, but Pepper knew it was never any sort of weapons – some software, or new designs for aircraft at most.

"What are you playing at here, Hammer?" she asked bluntly, narrowing her eyes.

"What am I _playing at_? I'm merely pointing out to the rest of your faithful board members that we have a serious situation here. Someone's hands are dirty, and they're leaving their fingerprints everywhere. If this company is to move forward and progress, someone's got to take out the trash first before it stinks out the place."

Pepper could smell something rotten alright, and he was sitting in her seat.

"What Mr Hammer is trying to say is that, the board have come to an agreement. It is in our best interest, and the company's best interest, that you resign as CEO." An elderly board member spoke out to Pepper in a sympathetic tone.

"On what grounds?" Pepper asked urgently.

"Withholding incriminating information and spending company money on a dead project," Hammer replied flatly.

"This is slander, and ARC reactor technology is _**not **_a _**dead project**_!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I was under the impression that its founder was no longer with us, not to mention this company has _lost_ money since giving it the go ahead. Stark was probably too busy turning over his new leaf playing Captain Planet to realise that."

Pepper looked around the table at the faces of the other board members, some expressing cold indifference whilst others were obviously saddened by the situation but chose to remain silent.

"I can't believe you're serious," she breathed with astonishment. "Please don't tell me_ he_ will be taking my place."

"Funny you should say that, actually…" Hammer began, reaching into his briefcase again to pull out paper work, most likely documents requiring her signature.

"I refuse," she bit out.

"Not an option," Hammer retorted, reaching for the phone by his side and pressing a button. "If you wish to take this somewhere else, I'm game, but you're services within this company are no longer required – _Oh, security?_"

He uttered a few words into the phone and no sooner had he hung up two burly men in security uniforms entered the room.

"Tony will be spinning in his grave right now," Pepper seethed.

"Oh, I'm sure he'll be doing a lot more than that," Hammer smiled. "Would you both kindly escort Miss Potts from the premises?"

"I don't know how it is you managed to do what it is you are doing, or who you're working with, but mark my words, _this_ isn't over," she practically hissed as the two burly security guards took her by the arms and escorted her out of the room.

Hammer clapped his hands together. "

Right, well now that we've overcome that little obstacle, shall we get down to business?"

. . .

"I hate this uniform," Natasha breathed as she exited a hotel closet and fidgeted with her skirt. She reached for a small cart filled with towels and fresh bed linen and began to walk down the hallway, pushing it along in front of her.

"_I dunno, you? In a maid's outfit? Gonna have to disagree with you there," _Clint's voice spoke quietly through her comms. She could practically hear the smirk on his face.

"Hey, mind back on the mission, Romeo. I need you focused up there. This uniform is supposed to avoid attention, not attract it."

"_You're right, it is a distraction,"_ he added slyly.

"Signal coming in clear where you are?" She asked under her breath as she made her way down the long hallway.

"Lookin' beautiful."

Clint was sat on an old office chair by a short window, watching a small red light pulse delicately on the map on the small laptop screen by his side. He was nested comfortably in an empty office on the upper most floor of the building directly opposite The Mayflower Renaissance Hotel, keeping his eyes peeled on the street below for any signs of trouble. The target – Christian Dermott – was currently absent from his hotel room, and Natasha had taken the opportunity to do some snooping there and find out anything that may lead them to the source of the sensitive information he claimed to have.

Clint's trusty bow was stored neatly in an open case by his feet, ready for easy access, and a M24 sniper rifle with a suppressor was placed against the wall just below the window.

"Looks clear from here. I'm making my way there now," Natasha informed Clint as she turned right down the next long hallway towards her destination, one of the many guest rooms on the southwest corridor.

As she continued her steady pace towards the room on the far right two men in black suits wearing sunglasses exited a room next door and made their way down the hallway towards her. They appeared to be on a mission themselves and didn't offer her a second glance as they passed her, but she noted the ear pieces and weapon indentations in the getup that made it pretty obvious they were security or hired guns of some sort.

She reached the door of Dermott's room and swiped her key card through the lock, entering with the small cart and allowing the door to close quietly behind her after checking the hallway one final time.

"I'm in."

"_How's the crib?"_

"Excessive."

Clint chuckled quietly. _"Hey, swipe me a towel will you? The ones back at HQ suck ass. It's like tryin' to dry yourself with a sheet of plywood."_

Natasha got to work checking the desk and any personal belongings that lay around the room, discovering a small black laptop hidden under the bed. She opened it and got to work hacking into the drive as quickly as possible.

There didn't appear to be much out of the ordinary at first – a few schedules, notes for arranged meetings with people in the media, cash transactions. At that point she noted a large sum of money had been transferred recently from one account to another, and by large it was several hundred million dollars.

"_Found any dirt?"_

"Looks like someone had their payday recently. This guy's handed over $500,000,000 in instalments to an unnamed recipient."

"_Jeezus… where the hell did he get that kinda money?"_

"I don't know, but he has bad news written all over him. We have nothing on record of his family or professional history. It's like he just appeared out of thin air, and nobody's picked up on that."

She continued to browse through the drive further, until she hit the jackpot. It was a list of encrypted e-mails to several high-profile names, including Senator Stern and Justin Hammer, and the content pointed to a very carefully devised plan to take control over Stark Industries and confiscate Stark's Iron Man technology.

"Wow. There's dirt alright," she breathed in surprise, a small smirk of satisfaction tugging at the corner of her lips as she placed a pen drive in the laptop and began to download all of the incriminating content. "Cleaning is in progress."

"_Anything on S.H.I.E.L.D there?"_

"So far, no, but give me a minute."

"_Better make it quick, 'cos daddy's back from work."_

Clint watched a black sedan pull up outside the hotel main entrance and Dermott exit the vehicle, stopping to button up his jacket and shake another man's hand as the two men in black suits stood in waiting.

"Target is by black sedan. Operation patty-cake is a go," Clint spoke quietly into his comms to another agent on street level, no more than fifty feet away from Dermott. Immediately, a man wearing jeans and a buttoned up black leather jacket walked towards the group of men by the car and accidently knocked Dermott's shoulder.

"Sorry man!" he shouted as he continued to make his way down the street and cross the road, out of Clint's sight. The two suits guarding Dermott were too slow to react and were quick to dismiss the man as a clumsy pedestrian.

Seconds later Clint's laptop picked up another signal on the map, only this time it was a green light that appeared to be outside the hotel on street level.

"_I'm monitoring him now. He's headin' into the building with his goon squad. Make it snappy," _Clint said through Natasha's ear piece.

"I'm on it, just digging a little deeper. Keep me posted," she muttered as she put her mad computer skills to the test.

Meanwhile the green light on Clint's screen was growing ever closer to Natasha's location, and Clint readied his sniper rifle by his feet. Fortunately the room's window was within range, and if he had to he could take a shot, though it wouldn't be an easy or clean one.

After enough digging Natasha finally found the evidence they had been looking for – Dermott did indeed have classified S.H.I.E.L.D information, and most of it was on weapons development, more specifically "Phase 2" items, but there didn't appear to be any immediate indication as to where he had obtained the information. On top of that, there was nothing on S.H.I.E.L.D personnel or agent identities that he claimed to know. So how the hell did he know in the first place, if he was indeed telling the truth at all?

"Gotcha," she smirked as she hit a key on the laptop and began making copies of those files too. She took the time to check that nothing was out of place within the room as the download took its sweet time.

Dermott had reached the Elevator and was making his way up to the top floor of the guest room level when Clint came through the comms again.

"_He's about a minute away, better clean up n' lock up, now."_

Natasha returned to the laptop screen that read '80% complete' as the bar continued to fill, but at a painfully slow pace given the circumstances.

"ГАДИТЬ…"

"Hey, let's keep it PG 13 – oh **_shhhit!_**" Clint interrupted as he noticed that the green light had disappeared from the map altogether. He scrambled to his laptop, hammering frantically at certain keys in hope that the little light would return.

"I've lost his signal."

He reached for his rifle again and kept his eyes and his aim fixed at the window across the street.

Natasha made her way quietly to the door and opened it slightly. The coast seemed clear, but the ping of the elevator down the far end of the hallway just around the corner was not a good sign. Hastily she closed the door, pulled the pen drive from the laptop and shut it down before reaching for her gun in the holster on her right thigh, placing it beneath a towel on the small cart.

She opened the door and exited the room, allowing the door to automatically lock as it clicked shut behind her. Just as she had left the room, Dermott and the two suits turned the corner at the end of the hallway. Natasha never broke character and kept her face masked as a gentle, customer-friendly maid, smiling quietly at the men who were approaching. As she passed she caught the eyes of Dermott himself. His short hair was slicked back, and he was wearing a dark green-tinted suit with a thin black tie. He smiled at Natasha, but it wasn't a 'normal' sort of smile. It was strange, almost chilling in a way, like the both of them had seen and spoken to one another in the past, which was impossible. Natasha had never seen him in person before, let alone had the opportunity to converse with him, and yet she felt a strange sense of déjà vu. His eyes lingered on hers as he passed by, but when Natasha turned her head he had broken his gaze and continued on as normal, not once looking back.

"_Tasha, you good?...Tasha?" _Clint's voice came through the comms urgently.

She broke away from her thoughts and turned, continuing down the hall until she found a secure spot where she was able to compose herself and make sense of what just happened.

"_Tasha?"_

"Yeah…" she breathed, shakily, "…I'm good."

She _knew_ that smile, from somewhere…

Then it hit her, and the colour drained from her face.

"Clint? Call Fury. We've got a level 7."


	6. Take A Bow

**25/11/12 -EDIT- Changed a few things, nothing major, just reads better now! (thanks again npeg! :D)**

**WARNING IN ADVANCE: This chapter contains fatalities, just so you know.**

Thanks again to the lovely npeg for acting as beta and making some lovely tweaks. This chapter was a really hard one to write, and I was hoping to include more of the remaining scenes I had planned for it but it would have just been a wall of text. The chapter's already a long one ^_^'. So yeah, look out for next chapter coming soon and my OC will finally be making an appearance! FINALLY! LIKE, HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN!?

As per, music of choice:

"Take a Bow" – Muse

"Assassin" – Muse

"A Watchful Guardian" – Hans Zimmer & James Newton Howard (The Dark Knight OST)

"Embers" – Max Richter (For obvious reasons D':)

npeg also informed me of a comic that has a familiar sort of theme to this chapter (Captain America volume 6 I believe, but I could be wrong, it's one or several of the issues, and I have yet to read that but yeah, there you go.)

I don't own any of the characters yada yada, etc etc, or any reference to existing dialogue etc etc, and any OC character likeness in name or appearance is purely coincidental. Title inspired by Muse's track name, and also that song is win.

Also, don't play with guns and firecrackers. BAD.

* * *

_Take A Bow_

"Are you **_absolutely _**sure?" Fury interrupted as he turned to face the screen.

"_My instincts are telling me it's him. I **know **it's him," _Natasha replied firmly.

The blue glare from the screen above Fury flickered in the darkness of the quiet room on board the Helicarrier. He leaned over the tinted glass table and sighed heavily. The council had been on his back for days now, pushing him to 'deal with' this Dermott character quickly before any real classified information was leaked. The news Natasha had delivered was proof enough for him to give the go ahead and have a team take the guy down, but if her instincts were right (which they usually were) that would be a grave mistake.

Bullets wouldn't work on this guy, and he certainly wouldn't give up without a fight.

"I need to inform the Council. If what you're saying is true then we've got **_every reason_** to worry about him now. I want you to keep an eye on him, but keep your distance. He knows what he claims to know about us, that's fact."

"_Understood."_

Fury ended the transmission and scrolled through the glass panel in front of him as Agent Hill entered the room, having overheard the conversation from the other side of the open door.

"Sir… if what Agent Romanoff said is true, then shouldn't we send out a response team?"

"He's put himself right in the middle of a televised event surrounded by civilians. If we try to take him out now there will be civilian casualties. And we can't afford to have that black mark on S.H.I.E.L.D's name, not with the (current) state of things. I think the list of casualties we've racked up is long enough already, don't you?" he replied gravely.

"But surely you don't mean to let him continue –"

"–Agent Hill, I will deal with him when the time is right, but for now I expect you to do your job and let me do mine. Understood?"

Maria pursed her lips and nodded, turning on her heel to leave the room. Fury pressed a few lights on the glass panel and four screens lit up before him, each displaying a silhouetted figure.

"Council…"

. . .

Steve had returned to the gym not long after his conversation with Fury, eager to punch something out of sheer frustration, and had spent the majority of the day in that room drifting between workouts and daydreaming. He'd not signed up to spying on his own friends, and he damn well wasn't going to, since he'd made his point leaving S.H.I.E.L.D in the first place.  
He hit the punching bag with one last swing of his fist, sending it flying across the room. Bag number six of the day, and incidentally the last of them. He'd apologise to Pepper later.

"Rough day?" a voice called out to him from the entrance.

Steve recognised that voice immediately, and was literally lost for words when he turned to find who it was.

"**_I apologise for the inconvenience, but he overrode my security measures and insisted that I not inform you of his presence –"_** JARVIS's voice rang in Steve's ears.

"–_You_?..." Steve breathed, blinking in disbelief. He must have overdone the workout this time…

Because an Agent Phil Coulson stood by the door of the gym, very much alive and well, wearing his usual suit and holding a folder of paperwork. He smiled sheepishly at the soldier.

"But… You… Fury said –" Steve gaped.

"–He wasn't wrong," Phil admitted calmly, trying to convey an apology in his eyes, "I know what he told you, and I'm sorry he had to lie to you. It was a necessary evil."

Stung, Steve removed the tape from his hands as he reached roughly for a towel to dry his face. "Well I'm glad you believe that. Frankly, you look pretty spry for a corpse."

"Captain, I almost did die. It was a close call. I was severely wounded, but fortunately for all of us, I wound up in a recovery room instead of the morgue. It's taken me a while to get back to work, and I'm still not at my best, which is why I'm not on the job with Barton and Romanoff," Coulson said, making his way into the centre of the room.

Steve opened his mouth to say something else but was interrupted by the sound of heels clicking on the hard floors of the room opposite, and Pepper arguing with her cell phone, the snap of it as she closed it angrily.

"Steve? The company is in _deep_ trouble and I need you to contact S.H.I.E.L.D to…" she trailed off, letting the phone slip from her fingers and fall to the floor with a crack as she stopped dead in the entrance, unable to believe her eyes.

"…**_Phil!?_**"

Coulson turned and smiled softly at the astonished woman in the doorway.

"Miss Potts."

Steve cracked his knuckles, trying to calm the wave of irrational anger Coulson's Lazarus-style reappearance had awoken, then motioned to Pepper, "Not to be blunt, Agent Coulson, considering you were a dead man as far as we were _both_ concerned not two minutes ago, but _why are you here_?" he asked.

"Fury sent me to investigate Stark Industries. I understand that you have run into some difficulties recently, Miss Potts?" he spoke calmly.

Pepper stammered a little before finally finding her voice again. "I – yes, in fact that's why I'm here." Pepper sighed as she revealed the news. "I don't know how he managed to do it without my noticing but Hammer has bought enough of Stark Industries stock that he now owns a controlling interest in the company. He's managed to worm his way onto the board of directors and somehow he's convinced them that it's in the company's best interests to lock me out."

"_What_-?" Steve asked, but Phil held up a finger to shush him, motioning Pepper to continue.

"He's got his hands on some… strange documents, documents that he used to undermine me in front of the board, documents incriminating Tony. But they're forgeries. Clever forgeries, granted, but they're forgeries nonetheless." She rolled her lip between her teeth in the slightest betrayal of how nervous she really was about this turn of events, then breathed out slowly but heavily through her nose and carried on.

"I don't know how he got them, or who he got them from, but I want to know who he's working with, because there's no way he's done this on his own –"

"**_Captain, Director Fury is on the line…"_** The persistent English voice interrupted, and with perfect timing as usual.

"Fury?..." Pepper muttered.

Instantly, a large video projection appeared before the three of them, and a very concerned-looking Nick Fury spoiled their little reunion. Steve suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

"_Captain, I've got some bad news for you and Miss Potts."_

_Bad_ news? Steve was still waiting for any other kind of news to be delivered…

"_It looks like Dermott has been working with Hammer and Senator Stern, most likely to get his hands on Stark's armour. I suggest you move it to a secure location as soon as possible."_

"That son of a –" Pepper breathed.

"–_That's not all,"_ Fury added, _"Agent Romanoff has reason to believe that Dermott isn't a politician. Dermott isn't even human. He's Loki."_

The room fell silent, and Steve's mouth went slack. His gaze wandered through the projection to some distant space.

The guy had been under their noses all this time, in broad daylight, on national television no less. He'd managed to find the perfect hiding place – at the centre of all the chaos that had been consuming the country little by little, eating away at the foundations of law and order until gradually it would all come tumbling down like a precarious house of cards, and he'd stand by, ready to mould the world to his own desires, remake it in his own twisted image. How in the hell had they missed it?

"My God, he's got us right where he wants us," Steve murmured, his attention returning to Fury who arched an eyebrow.

"_I think that's an overreaction at this point, Captain, but I've informed the Council and they demand a response team be sent to deal with him. I've advised against it and refused to send any more of my agents until we are **absolutely sure** it's Loki we're dealing with."_

"**_Don't you see_**!? Anything they do will just make his position _stronger_. The Christian Dermott gimmick, the **_protests_**, the **_talk shows_**? He's surrounding himself with a mass of supporters who hang on his every word. Loki's got us playing **_his game_** by **_his rules_**, and if your Council choose to ignore you like they did with New York, he'll win. **_We're _**the bad guys in this piece – he's turning the people against us," Steve urged.

Pepper's legs suddenly felt weak beneath her and she steadily lowered herself to sit on a nearby chair, eyes distant.

"_He won't succeed, not on my watch. You leave the Council to me. I've already got Agents Romanoff and Barton on site; they'll deal with anyone who tries to lay a finger on the guy. Now, I advise you get to work haulin' that tech out of Stark's place before it ends up with a Hammer price tag and I have to make you watch Terminator: Judgement Day for you to get the picture. Understood?"_

Steve actually had no idea what he meant towards the end of that little rant, but he got the gist of it and managed to exchange a blank gaze for an affirmative nod.

"_Oh, and Coulson?"_

The mild-mannered agent raised his head.

"Sir."

"_You know what to do."_

And with that, Fury ended the transmission.

. . .

A mass crowd of protestors covered the east grounds of The United States Capitol, trailing onto the main roads and causing heavy traffic jams. The afternoon air was heavy with the constant wave of cheers and car horns as people gathered in the thousands, their picket signs raised high above their heads and words made visible for the entire world to see. And at the heart of the pandemonium their majestic leader, clad in a stylish black suit and tie, stood on the steps of the iconic white building, arms animate as he delivered his speech with a passionate force that caused the crowd to swell and roar.

Clint sat apprehensively by a window in the west wing, quietly observing the event with his bow at the ready, a single arrow braced between his fingers.

"_I've got two on the ground by the trees. You see them?"_ Natasha's voice came through the comms in a hushed tone.

"I got 'em."

Two agents hiding riffles were attempting to keep hidden amongst the foliage surrounding the mass of people, and Clint could also see a further suspicious-looking individual on the rooftop of a building behind the crowd on the other side of the street. Moments earlier Fury had given Clint and Natasha orders to take out anyone attempting to assassinate Dermott as he feared the Council had ignored him – _again_ –and taken the initiative themselves to have the man 'taken care of'. The job seemed simple enough, but the crowd was the perfect place to hide an assassin, and Clint suspected that the men by the foliage and on the roof were not the only ones.

"Somethin's not right. Seems too easy…" Clint spoke quietly as he lifted the bow, a soft creaking noise escaping it as he pulled the arrow back against the string.

"_Just keep your eyes peeled," _Fury's voice came through the comms, calm but commanding as he stood on the bridge of the Helicarrier, monitoring the situation.

Natasha stood on the outskirts of the crowd not far from the steps of the building, dressed in black skinny fit jeans, a red top and a beige jacket. She was assessing the situation on the ground, keeping her eyes on the building's windows behind the target for any signs of trouble. It was likely that many of the men in sight were decoys or simply there to cover the real assassin that she suspected remained hidden in the crowd.

The sea of protesters erupted into applause and cheering as Dermott finished a lengthy segment of his speech. Natasha kept her eyes on the crowd.

"_Don't know 'bout you, but I'm findin' it **real hard **resistin' the urge to pincushion this guy right now," _Clint said.

She quirked a small smile before turning to assess the position of the other suspicious men already identified.

"Yeah, well save it. You've got plenty of target practice already."

Clint could see the man on the roof across the street was beginning to take his aim at his target, and he let the arrow fly, landing a clean shot right in the guy's eye socket.

"_Rooftop's clear."_

Natasha made her way around the edge of the crowd and snuck up behind one of the agents hidden in the foliage, knocking him out with a few blows to the head. The guy never saw her coming.

"Amateurs…" She breathed before making her way back into the horde of people.

Dermott's speech appeared to be approaching its end, but unbeknownst to his eager supporters it was merely the beginning of something much greater, something worthy of far more concern to our heroes.

The other rogue agent within the foliage on the east side of the crowd aimed his sniper rifle at the instigator stood atop the steps, and Clint let another arrow fly, neutralising the problem. However, amongst the cheering and applauding Natasha spotted another man who appeared to be making his way through the crowd towards the front, his right hand tucked behind his open navy jacket. She urged her way into the mass of protestors, pushing her way through as she reached for her own gun.

"We have a rogue agent in the crowd, east. Suspect is male, blue Boston cap, navy jacket. I'm in pursuit."

"_I see him,"_ Clint breathed as he aimed another arrow at the blue cap worming its way through the sea of people below. Unfortunately there were so many picket signs obstructing his view that he couldn't get a clear shot unless the man inched his way a little closer to the front of the crowd.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang, and Natasha raised her gun instinctively. She turned to find where the noise had come from, only to discover that they were merely firecrackers that a few teenagers had set off. The noises continued to impair her senses, the mini explosions accompanied by the roar of the excitable spectators thundering through the air as she continued to pursue the suspicious man in the cap. She reached a small opening and had a clean shot at her target when another bang echoed around the grounds, only this time is wasn't a firecracker. A woman to her left dropped to the floor, and Natasha raised her head to a window in the east wing of the white building in front of her.  
The man in the window aimed his rifle again, but he wasn't quick enough to avoid the gun shots of his target. Natasha fired at the window, but by now the crowd had caught on to the danger that surrounded them. The cheers from the centre of the crowd gradually turned to screams as people pushed forward towards the building in what was rapidly dissolving into a mindless panicked stampede.

"Shit! I've lost him! Take him down!" Natasha shouted.

Fury leaned against the table as he and the rest of the crew, including Agent Hill, listened to the live audio feed and a news broadcast of the event played on the many monitors on board.

"_On it,"_ Clint murmured, holding his breath as he followed the blue cap's purposeful strides towards the front of the chaos.

He released his grip and the arrow whistled above the heads of frantic spectators, barely grazing the cheek of a young woman before imbedding itself in the head of his target. Instantly the hired bodyguards from the hotel made their way down the steps and began to fire at Natasha. The crowd scattered, and that was when Clint noticed him. It was another man, to the west side of the grounds, holding a picket sign and dressed in similar clothing to most of Dermott's devout followers, but he was not running away from the fight. The man dropped the picket sign and hastily made his way towards the steps, pulling a gun from the inside of his coat. Before Clint could reach for another arrow and aim it square between his eyes the man pulled the trigger, and Dermott fell to the floor. It was a clean shot to the head, and Clint's arrow was barely a second too late as it found the assassin's skull.

"…Shit…" Clint breathed, lowering his bow and blinking as the beads of sweat dripped down his brow.

"…_Suspect is down…"_

The disembodied voice of the archer echoed around the walls of the Hellicarrier Bridge, falling on the ears of its defeated crew members.

Fury sighed heavily, lowering his head. If Dermott wasn't Loki, then a shot like that would have killed him. It was good news in a way – the man was no longer a threat to S.H.I.E.L.D or the safety of its associates. But on the other hand, Loki was still missing…

"…_Wait…"_ Natasha's voice added, shakily.

The Helicarrier fell totally silent, and Fury lifted his head slowly to view the footage on the screen in front of him.

"_Tasha?"_

Natasha could hear Clint's voice over the comms, and he was clearly disconcerted.

And for good reason, because the suspect – Dermott – was _moving_.

More than that, he was rising to his feet.

Natasha aimed her gun at the bloodied man, his head still bowed as he slowly rose to a standing position. His dark hair appeared to be much longer than before, black suddenly crawling like ink from the roots to the tips as the hairs grew longer, stray locks trailing down the sides of his pale, blood-spattered face. He exhaled slowly, the long hiss dissolving into a low cackle – it was faint, too faint to possibly be audible against the continuing screams of the fleeing crowds, but Natasha, Clint, everyone in fact who was listening to the feed, could hear it. The cackle grew louder still, until it swelled to become a deep, menacing laugh.  
Natasha felt a bead of sweat skid down the side of her temple as her wide eyes remained glued to the tall figure that gradually came to its feet atop the stairs, looming over her and the mass of people yet to flee the grounds.

"Agent Romanoff," the familiar velvet voice purred. "Did you miss me?"

He raised his head, levelling his posture so that the full extent of his tall frame towered above her and the ant-like followers on the ground.

"Loki…" Natasha whispered. She tightened her grip on the gun in her hands, and Loki grinned, obviously delighted by the reaction he was evoking.

"I did enjoy our brief encounter the other day. I would have stopped to chat, but alas, I have been rather busy of late." He made his way down the steps slowly and gracefully as he smiled; a familiar one she had seen him pull when he had been held captive on the Helicarrier.  
He had no sooner made it two steps when an arrow flew from the far west corner of the building behind him. He lifted his hand and caught it easily before it could make itself cosy in the base of his skull, but before he could throw the thing aside the arrow head flashed blue and exploded in his hand. Natasha ducked for cover, raising her arms to shield her eyes, but she caught a glimpse of the still-standing trickster, smoke streaming from his unscathed frame in the gentle breeze.

"You are only making matters much worse for yourselves, you know," he breathed, grin no longer present.

Natasha regained her footing, and noticed a small golden cane with a glassy blue tip melt into vision within his left palm as he swung to his right and fired a blue bolt of energy at Clint's window. The archer dived out of sight, rolling across the floor and under a table as glass and plaster exploded within the room in a bright flash of blue heat.  
The explosion created a powerful wave of air that pushed back on the god and his red-haired enemy, causing the tail of his long fitted jacket to dance black in the wind.

Natasha ran for the nearest cover, shooting at the trickster as she did so, but the bullets had no effect and were simply deflected. He waved them aside as if they were nothing, like insignificant insects. The remaining rogue agents on the ground also began to shoot, however each met an expedient end in flashes of blue as Loki fired his small cane-like sceptre.

The god of mischief made his way back up the steps and positioned himself at the very centre of the platform. He slid a hand along his cane, extending it to its full length, a similar-looking sceptre to his previous design, only it looked more like a spear now, the blade shining silver, engraved with intricate weaves and ancient scripture.

He struck the floor with the end of the sceptre, hard, the loud crack rippling through the grounds, causing the crowd to stop and turn, to listen once more to their leader, born again in chaos.

"**_People of the free world!_**" His voice, strong and commanding, reached the ears of the frightened protestors as it was carried booming on the wings of the growing breeze. The grounds fell eerily silent as he spoke, and Loki breathed a laugh at his own choice of words and the sight of his supporters before him.

"**_Free world_**," he snorted, "Such a **_romantic _**concept." Then he smiled, pitying. "An **_idea_**. A **_delusion_**. An **_illusion _**conjured up by your so-called **_leaders_** and **_protectors_**, the very protectors that have **_deceived you _**and will continue to do so unless you choose to **_act now_** and **_stand against them_**. I offer you this chance. Will you take back control? Have you the strength? Have you the courage? Will you rule, or be ruled?"

He paced the platform slowly, eyeing his spectators who remained frozen, listening intensely to his every word, from fear or awe, or both. There was silence at first, but with his words the crowd began to whisper, to speak and shout, until there was again a dull roar laying the soundtrack to his speech.

"I stand before you the **_same man _**who pulled you from the ashes of grief and despair, who gave each and every one of you a **_voice_**, a voice that cannot be silenced or shunned, a voice that **_demands justice_** for the crimes your protectors have committed," Loki's voice rang out.

"I ask you,**stand**. Pledge your allegiance to me, and I promise you… you **_will_** **_have_** your justice. I shall deliver it into your waiting hands. Now."

His grin grew into a wide smile as he motioned to another bodyguard hidden in the shadows behind him.

The doors to the building opened, and four armed men – military by their camouflage uniforms and guns – walked towards the edge of the platform, each pushing a figure with a bag over their head and their wrists bound behind them.

"Look upon the guilty faces of your guardians!" Loki shouted as each of the armed men lifted the bags from the heads of their prisoners, revealing the terrified faces of three men and a woman, their mouths taped crudely shut.

Fury could see them clearly in the live news footage on his screen, and his heart plummeted.

"Sir, that… that's the –" Agent Hill uttered.

"—I know…" Fury interrupted in a grave voice.

Loki had the Council.

_How the hell had Loki managed to track down the members of the Council!?_

Gradually, more military men began to circle the grounds, keeping the crowd of spectators locked in a mass horde to pay witness to the scene unfolding atop the white stairs. Loki's deal with Hammer had paid off, as had his deal with Senator Stern, because he had a great deal of support and protection from the military right now, and that realisation troubled Fury deeply.

"These leaders and those faceless, nameless criminals who destroyed the city of New York are **_one and the same_**. They sentenced you, the people, to die. Your brothers and fathers. Your sisters and mothers. Your friends. They are the same criminals who have tried to silence **_you _**when you demanded answers, when you sought justice for their unforgivable crimes, and they are the **_same_** criminals who attempted to silence **_me_**." Loki continued.

"But we shall be silent **_no longer!_**"

The crowd began then to shout and cheer in support in earnest, and Natasha could barely believe what she was seeing and hearing unfold.

She raised a hand to her earpiece.

"Clint!? Clint, are you there!?"

The archer had made his way out of the devastated room, fire burning at his back, and was attempting to find a way down the inside of the building to the main entrance where a public execution appeared to be underway.

"I'm okay. The place is swarmin' with militia though."

"_He's found the Council members. They're here."_

"**_What!?_**"

"_I think it's a public execution."_

Clint sprang into action and began firing arrows at unsuspecting gunmen that were patrolling the area. The quiet whistling of the arrows as he let them fly offered his enemies little warning, and each man fell one after the other as the crowd continued to roar outside. A couple of gunmen noticed a body of one of their unit, face down on the marble floor, an arrow protruding from the back of his neck. They readied their guns.

"The Hawk?" one of the men asked his comrade, who nodded silently.

"I heard he can hit a target as small as a fly over 100 feet away."

"Pfft, oh yeah? I heard he used to do tricks for peanuts at the circus. Which sounds more likely to you–?"

Suddenly, the gunman winced in pain before falling face first onto the floor. An arrow was neatly lodged dead centre in the small anarchy tattoo on the back of his neck. His comrade blinked in shock and instinctively raised his gun.

"Shit! Where is he!?"

"Caw caw, mothafucka," a voice breathed behind him.

Before the gunman could react the archer's bow was already pressed firmly against his windpipe, Clint pulling hard from behind. He kneed the man in the lower back a few times before striking a fatal blow to his skull. Clint reached down to remove the arrow from the other body on the floor, placing it back into the quiver and replacing the arrow head as he did so.

"Sorry. Thought that was a bull's-eye. Guess I don't get those peanuts then."

He could see the building's exit where Loki continued to make his voice heard outside at the top of the stairs, and made his way towards it in a sprint.

Meanwhile, Natasha noticed a few unused firecrackers lying on the floor, and knelt to pick them up. Most of them seemed to be damaged, most likely during the chaos that had ensued moments earlier, but one seemed to be in good enough shape. It would do. She pocketed it and continued to move through the crowd of cheering supporters who were blinded by the prospect of revenge as their leader continued.

"I believe in the **_true_** concept of justice! An eye for an eye…"

The trickster grinned.

_And a lie for a lie._

He gave the signal to the gunmen behind the kneeling prisoners to open fire, but one by one they began to fall to the ground, an arrow buried in the back of each of their necks. More soldiers appeared from the fringe of the grounds and began firing at the Council members who had risen to their feet and made a run for it. The crowd scattered now as men took aim and fired, fired again, and the three of the four prisoners fell, but the remaining one managed to run through the building's entrance, passing Clint as they did so.

The archer kicked forward and made to strike the trickster square between the eyes with his bow, but Loki was far too quick for him. The bow fell to the floor with a loud crack, and Clint found his feet barely touching the ground as Loki grabbed him, tightening his spidery fingers in a vice-like grip around his throat.

Natasha lunged forward to save her partner only to be warned by the glowing core of Loki's sceptre as he aimed it steadily towards her. She stopped and resumed her fighting stance, a venomous glare directed at the monster before her.

"Look at the two of you, the _happy couple_. Come now, don't tell me this isn't love," Loki sneered at Natasha.

"Put him down Loki, or –"

"—Or you'll what? _Kill me_?" he laughed, "Your superiors attempted to do just that and failed spectacularly in case you had forgotten. You're clearly outmatched here. But if you wish to save him in the hope of wiping that ledger of yours clean… then by all means, **_you are welcome to_** **_try_**."

"Tasha…" Clint choked as he held on to the arm of his captor. He shook his head, urging her to back down, but she wasn't going to give up so easily, least of all to a monster like Loki. All the while the soldiers under his command began to circle the trio, guns at the ready and aimed at the two assassins either side of the god.

"Such tragic circumstances…" Loki grinned, tightening his grip on the archer's throat.

Natasha glanced at the closing ring of enemies quickly before meeting the eyes of her partner. She gave him a knowing look, shifting her eyes quickly to the bow beneath his feet, a warning for him to prepare himself for the next move she was about to make. He got the message.

"…I am curious to know just how far you would go to save him."

In a lightening quick move, Natasha threw one of the firecrackers towards Loki, reached for her other gun and fired at it. The small cylinder exploded with a loud bang right in the face of the trickster, and an adequate cloud of smoke veiled the trio in the centre of the ring. Instantly a number of soldiers began to shoot blindly into the white fog. Loki's initial reaction was to shield his eyes, lowering his guard enough for Clint to reach for the arrow already prepared in his quiver and thrust it into the god's shoulder. It barely impaled his arm, but was lodged deep enough to trigger the acid contained in the arrow's head to spill. Loki cried out in shock and instantly released the archer who was quick to grab his bow and fire a number of arrows through the smoke, each one hitting its target directly in the throat.

Loki reached for the arrow still protruding from his shoulder and removed it with a hiss. The acid had done little damage to the Asgardian's tough skin, but it had hurt nonetheless. He raised his sceptre and fired it through the dissipating cloud towards the two agents who had made their escape through the building's entrance. The blast missed by a hair, but the shockwave still caused them to lose their footing as chunks of debris flew above them in a cloud of dust and smoke.  
Ears ringing, Natasha lifted her head to find Clint rolling onto his side, face twisted with pain. He had a few bullet holes in him, and the reinforced vest he was wearing hadn't quite managed to stop all of the shots that had been fired. To make matters worse, the last of his arrows had been spent, and Loki was making determined strides through the doorway towards them in the settling dust.

"_Agent Romanoff!? You've got a jet coming in now," _Fury's voice called over the comms, a relief given the circumstances.

"Clint, c'mon! Get up!" she hissed to him, trying to pull him to his feet as she stood. She looked out towards the open doors of the exit and could hear the approaching jet – the Quinjet II most likely – from the far end of the grounds. With Clint on his feet the two made their way out of the building.

Just outside Natasha could see the Council member that had managed to escape relatively unscathed, running towards the black craft that was landing on the grass. Natasha limped her way to the lowering rear door, the injured archer leaning against her shoulder for support as his legs began to fail him. She sat him down on one of the passenger seats as another agent exited the craft and helped the last surviving Council member on board.

"You – you shoulda just –"

"–Shhhh," she hushed him softly, kneeling on one leg as she strapped him in, "I wasn't going to leave you out there with no ammo."

"I had a gun," he breathed.

"But your aim's off, and your hand-to-hand combat's gotten a little sloppy lately," she smiled faintly.

Clint scoffed at that through a smile of his own.

The other S.H.I.E.L.D agent attempted to close the door so they could take-off, but the platform would not lift.

"Door's jammed! It won't budge!"

Natasha turned her head and noticed the approaching group of heavily armed enemy soldiers through the stray gunfire that was beginning to reach their ride, accompanied by the trickster himself.

"_Leaving so soon?" _Loki's voice rang softly in her ears. She appeared to be the only one who could hear him. _"I'm afraid I cannot allow that."_

"_Loki…"_ her own internal voice replied with mixture of fear and rage.

"_You have one of my prisoners, and I do not take kindly to thieves…unless, of course, you wish to make a trade?"_

Natasha's eyes shifted to Clint who was anxiously watching their enemy draw ever closer.

"_I know it is not **my** prisoner you are protective of though, is it? __No. __You fear for **his **life."_

She swallowed hard, fighting off the growing anxiety in the pit of her stomach as she shut her eyes, shut out the light and the painful present. But Loki's words continued to haunt her, continued to suffocate her with their merciless truth and strip her of her usual strong will and cold indifference. She was bare, naked before him in the darkness.

"_I can spare him__,"_ he said softly, promising_, "__I will spare them all. You pray for redemption, I offer you the opportunity."_

Her eyes opened, and Clint was looking directly at her now, his concern made obvious in his furrowed brow. Natasha made to stand, but he grabbed her wrist.

"Tasha? –"

"–You saved me, all those years ago. I owe you, Clint. I owe you so much–"

"You don't owe me anythin'. Tasha, why are you sayin' this? –"

"–And you were always there for me," she said appreciatively, turning her hand over in his grip, her thumb stroking his wrist.

Clint's eyes hid nothing. His heart, his honour, his pride, everything lay before the woman he loved.

"I'd follow you anywhere," he said wholeheartedly.

Without hesitation Natasha leaned in and their lips met in a desperate kiss. It was a lovers' kiss, passionate, enduring, and one that reflected a love for one another that had never been spoken openly. Their love was a silent one, and one too often governed by their duty.

She pulled away reluctantly, and Clint protested, pushing his weight against the oppressive safety harnesses as he followed her lips.

"Not this time," she breathed in his ear, voice trembling as her lips lingered there.

Clint heard the soft clicking of metal, and a coldness around his wrist as Natasha handcuffed him to the seat. His eyes remained fixed on hers, silently pleading with her not to go through with what he feared she was about to do, a deep unyielding pain burning behind them.

She left the craft, never looking back at the desperate man she had left behind.

"**_TASHA! NO!_**"

Loki smiled.

"_You got what you wanted. Now let them go," _she mentally projected her voice to the smirking monster that stopped but 50 yards from the jet.

"_Of course,"_ he complied, and the door began to close of its own accord, all the while the archer's desperate cries fell on deaf ears, the noise of the craft's engine smothering them. He caught the last glimpse of his partner through the shrinking crease of light before the door hissed closed, and they made their escape, unhindered.

"**_TURN THIS THING AROUND NOW!_**" Clint yelled at the pilot.

"I can't! – the controls are locked, and all weapons are disabled!"

"_I know what you're planning to do, but I won't become one of your puppets."_

Clint could still hear Natasha's voice over the comms, and he listened intently to the words, a prayer caught in his throat. _Let her make it._

Natasha approached the barricade of guns and their leader at its centre, his sceptre catching the fleeting sunlight.

Loki sniggered.

"If you wish to resist, I will not disappoint. However, your lover and his friends could so very easily plummet to their deaths if you do. And then your noble sacrifice would be for naught."

Her mask, the very one that she had mastered over the many years in her profession, cracked then; shattered into tiny fragments that crumbled to dust before her very eyes. She was compromised, trapped within a prison that had no bars or walls, to be tortured or controlled, used as Loki saw fit, and she could see no escape.

No escape…

She raised her hands behind her head and knelt, the guns' aim following, and the monster grinning with sheer delight at his triumph.

_No escape…_

Loki stepped forward, his staff at the ready.

_No…_

She closed her eyes, tried to summon the good memories that she and Clint had shared, the few that were truly theirs alone. They were buried so deep beneath the nightmares, but truly, they were no deeper than the very heart that held them.

"…red."

"What?" Loki breathed.

Natasha opened her eyes and met the monsters' above her, a small smile tugging at her lips as a single tear fell down her cheek, the only weakness she would allow herself as her world came crashing down around her. She pulled out a gun hidden in her sleeve jacket, but did not fire it at Loki, nor did she fire it at any of his loyal gunmen.

There was a loud bang, and then nothing but static in the archer's ear.

"**_TASHA!?... TASHA!_**"

Clint screamed desperately, struggling to free himself from his restraints, bloody wrist showing the beginnings of deep bruising beneath the metal cuff. But he and the other occupants of the jet continued to drift further away from the disaster that had taken place.

The crew on board the Helicarrier were silent. Agent Hill, blinking with shock and disbelief, stared into some distant space, and Fury slowly bowed his head as the archer's cries echoed unremittingly over the audio feed.

"Sir, should I give the order to pursue?" a soldier asked Loki who remained still, staring quietly at the lifeless body of his red-haired enemy.

"No…" he breathed as he turned towards the helicopter that was landing behind them. "They will meet their end soon enough…"  
The soldier nodded then stared down at the body by his feet. The woman looked so serene, her mouth turned ever so slightly in a soft smile, the trail left by a lone tear still fresh on her pale cheek, and her dark eyes half lidded.

"…They always do."


	7. A World Made Free

__OKAY! So, here it is, after such a loooooong wait! I am sorry for taking so long, but I have been busy doing other things like job hunting and getting some work experience as well as writing an original story (screenplay). This chapter isn't my best, and I have had some trouble trying to make it work. It is one of those necessary inserts for story progression and character introduction. Please feel free to leave feedback so I can make improvements. This is good practice for me :)

Music of interest for this chapter includes:

"Palladio Rebuilt" - Kerry Muzzey (sounds very Hans Zimmer-ish :D)

"Uprising" - Muse (basically, most of this album)

Once again, I own no one (apart from any OCs) and this is purely fan-based, inspired by movies and comics of the Marvel universe and any other fictional moving pictures of the action, crime and science-fiction variety. Enjoy ;)

* * *

_A World Made Free_

Onboard the Helicarrier, what followed the heavy silence and disbelief was a flood of commands and urgent responses. No sooner had the failed mission brought the entire crew to stillness did their director turn on his heel and make his next string of orders perfectly clear. Fury had immediately issued a warning to the White House to have the President evacuated; an order that was followed and executed so quickly even Loki was unable to trace them. When the god eventually showed up at the front doorstep of the White House it took minimal effort to get passed what guards had remained before he was left with an uncomfortable mixture of disappointment and intrigue at the President's absence. But that feeling was short lived, and more pressing matters were at hand. Playing cat and mouse with his enemies was only part of the fun.  
The god had quite conveniently obtained a small news crew, and with some "persuasion" (at gun point undoubtedly, but under Loki's intimidating glare most likely) the frightened group set up a camera and microphone in the Circle Room. He was already well versed in delivering a speech or two to an audience, as you all know, but this time there was no crowd before him. More importantly, there were no Avengers to rudely interrupt him either.  
His stage was set, the curtain pulled to, and his invisible audience awaited his words beyond that small circle of glass. The words had never before slipped so naturally from his lips.

"Ladies, gentlemen, liars, and deceivers… Good evening," he began, and the world listened.

Meanwhile, a S.H.I.E.L.D agent had picked up the broadcast and made an urgent announcement to Fury who immediately ordered it be displayed. The agent complied, and less that a second or two later the Bridge was once again filled with the velvet undertones of their enemy's voice and his smug grin beaming down on them from the massive projection. He was sat in the President's seat, looking very comfortable and quite pleased with himself. To the eyes of billions around the globe who watched their TV sets or stood in their busy city streets gazing at the large screens plastered over so many of the tower blocks, not a single ornament or decoration appeared to be damaged or misplaced. But just out of the camera's scope it was a very different picture. Many body guards and officials lay dead or unconscious on the floor, crimson staining the carpet, and a small local news crew stood by, shaking with fear as gunmen kept them in check.  
Fury gritted his teeth as the god continued.

"_**I am Loki**__. I am he who found the guilty and delivered you swift justice. However, their blood alone is not enough to avenge the blood that has been spilt at their hands. I speak now of __**S.H.I.E.L.D**__. They are the __**dogs**__ of your guilty leaders who remain loyal even now, to ghosts and shadows. They house these __**self-proclaimed**__**heroes**__ who survived when your loved ones perished. They are a house of secrets and lies, lies written in the blood of the innocent that paid the price of your leaders' crimes…"_

Something clicked then in Fury's mind and he suddenly appeared far less composed and far more urgent than he had moments earlier.

"I want all agents in all bases on high alert, now!" Fury ordered. "And get Coulson on the line!"

. . .

Coulson's phone buzzed in his pocket and he dropped the metal arm of the Mark IV in the silver box before answering it. The look on his face meant that it was not good news, and he moved hastily to the holographic screens at the desk. Pepper was most unnerved.

"Phil…?"

The agent uttered a "yes" and an "understood" into his phone before lowering it from his ear and typing a quick command into the computer's keypad.

"It's Director Fury… I'm afraid Barton and Romanoff have been compromised," said Coulson who did not appear to be his usual self.

"What?" breathed Steve. He stopped packing the armour.

Another screen lit up amongst the countless others above the desk. It was a live broadcast, one that had invaded every channel, and that familiar grin beaming back at them from the glare of the screen cut through the soldier all too easily, sending a shiver down his spine.

"That's the White House," Pepper uttered in disbelief.

The screen then flickered with picture after picture, name after name of high-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D agents, including Fury. Immediately after there was another catalogue of names and faces, only this time it was of people on S.H.I.E.L.D's own watch-list. Steve saw the faces of Stark, Romanoff, Dr. Banner, Barton, and himself appear one after the other, their identities made known to the world.

Loki continued with his little speech.

"_These are but a few who call themselves your protectors. You may be familiar with some of them, consider them heroes even. But what you do not know, what has been hidden from you, is the truth. The truth that they are, according to these S.H.I.E.L.D people, considered __**a threat **__to your safety. I ask…what kind of protector entrusts your safety to __**monsters and murderers**__?"_

Steve was utterly speechless, though a thousand and one thoughts swarmed within his mind like angry bees, a growing rage and a terrible fear consuming him in a long relentless drone. Every word that spilled from the lips of that monster fuelled its fire, added to the deafening roar, and in that moment, even with the magic of the serum that still flowed through his veins at an alarming rate, Steve had never felt so powerless in all his life.

Loki's confident and commanding frame appeared on the screen once more, leaning forward, hands pressed firmly on the table in front of him.

"_And what of your leaders? They argue amongst themselves. They send __**you **__into the battlefields in their quest for power, only to squander it. I implore you, __**rise**__. Rise above your deceitful leaders. Shun them. Cast __**them **__out into the unforgiving night, and I will bring __**you**__ the sunrise. I offer you __**unlimited power**__, and I ask of you one thing in return…" _

He rose from his seat and revealed his glowing sceptre, standing tall and proud before his worldwide audience.

"…_Pledge your allegiance to __**me, **__and you will know peace."_

. . .

On the other end of the line Fury was still watching the broadcast, along with the rest of the crew on the Bridge. On the large projection, Loki smiled as he stood tall with his sceptre in hand. He said nothing more, just stood, but the blue glow of his sceptre appeared to intensify and it reflected rather ominously in the god's eyes. The silence of his enemy made Fury quite uncomfortable, and he wondered for a moment if the transmission had frozen.

It hadn't, of course, but he had every reason to feel uneasy, for there was a purpose behind Loki's action (or lack of).

Several agents began to murmur to themselves and with other agents, and those of them that had been seated stood suddenly and appeared rather agitated. And then their murmurs grew louder so that words could be heard, and louder still until an entire string of them began to sweep across the Bridge and through the passageways of the ship like a poisonous wave, awakening hidden fears and doubts in the hearts of those with just enough of such things to convince them that Loki's words were truth.

"He's right. All they want is the Tesseract" and "We're fighting for murderers and power-hungry thugs. _**They're**_ the _**real monsters**_" were just a few of the words that reached Fury's ears, and he wasted no time in making his own voice heard to the deluded agents below.

"That's enough! Don't forget whose side you're on here and what you're fighting for."

"And just _**what is it**_ we're fighting for exactly? Not the people of New York that's for sure," one agent said in a condescending tone.

"Yeah – I didn't see you deal with the Council after they walked all over you. You're on _**their side**_," said another.

"Remember who you're talking to boy," Fury bit out. "Need I remind you of the atrocities this guy has committed in his pursuit to enslave every single man, woman and child on the face of the planet!? Or have you all completely lost your minds!?"

It took seconds for an argument to break out between those still loyal to Fury's cause and those who had succumbed to their own doubts. Such things had been nestled deep within their hearts, buried like a seed in the Earth, and over the course of time it had grown, fed by the terrible series of events that had taken place long before New York had been reduced to rubble. Loki had merely loosened that last layer of soil for the seedling to breach the surface, and each one of those angry and fearful agents had well and truly seen the light then. A poisonous blue flicker of a light, but a light none the less.  
As the arguing escalated into angry shouts Fury put a hand to his gun and, remembering Coulson was still on the line, spoke into his comms as clearly as he could over the noise.

"Secure the suits and evacuate now. Loki's cast some sort of spell through the broadcast and it's turned a lot of agents. When that helicopter reaches you, be on your guard. Right now, even our own men can't be trusted."

No sooner had Fury finished delivering his command to his best agent did another deliver some disturbing news. All of the arguing had been quite convenient for Loki, and it had offered enough of a distraction that the crew's attention was drawn from their monitors and work. They had been far too busy watching Loki's little speech and questioning their own motives to notice the five F22 Jets approaching fast from the West on their radar.

"Sir, we've got five birds approaching from the west. We've been ordered to land and make port at the nearest Navel base or they'll open fire –"

"—ignore that order. We're not landing unless I say we're landing!" Fury shouted.

That, of course, did not go down so well with the agents that had turned. It wasn't long before all hell broke loose and threats were replaced by gunfire. Fury took cover behind the nearest line of computer monitors and continued to deliver a string of orders through his comms to Sitwell and Hill, desperately hoping that they had not turned too.

"I've lost all contact with the Quinjet II. They're off the grid –" said another agent before his screen was rendered useless by a stray bullet as he ducked beneath his desk.

The lack of response from the Helicarrier tried the patience of the F22 pilots. One of them fired a warning shot at the ship, causing it to shudder so that its crew lost their footing and the emergency alarms were triggered. An agent tried to turn the ship westwards, but he was caught in the gunfire still taking place despite the situation. Then the Helicarrier turned suddenly, causing all sorts of warning messages to flash erratically on the navigation screens and further alarms to trigger, and with no reply transmitted to the awaiting jets the next series of ammunition was no longer a warning. Two of the main engines took the brunt of the fire and the ship dipped sharply, spinning out of control towards the ocean below. It would be minutes before impact.

With no other choice Fury fired at the rogue agents, gripping onto a railing to keep from sliding down the Bridge. Agent Hill appeared soon after; a desperate and panicked look on her face.

"I've got to access the main database. Cover me," ordered Fury.

Hill complied without question and continued to open fire on the rogue agents as they moved quickly towards the nearest computer that was not rendered fully useless. The room was filled with panic as many agents fled to evacuate the ship and others remained to continue fighting in blind rage.  
Fury typed a few long lines of code into the computer and within seconds he was in S.H.I.E.L.D's main database, filled with every top secret file and every member's identity ever recorded. Agent Hill questioned his intentions as she continued to cover his back.

"Sir, what are you doing?"

"Protecting our future," he responded flatly as he typed in a long string of code that was most likely a password.

Agent Hill did not understand.

"Sir? –"

"I don't know how Loki got his hands on those files, but no one else has full access to the main database but me. My guess is he's after what's left of the response team. If that's his play, I'll lead him on one hell of a chase, but I can't take the risk of him finding the rest of us. There's too much at stake. Anonymity is the only defence we have left now."

The word "DELETE?" suddenly appeared in bold red on the screen. It took little more than a simple push of a button on the keyboard for every remaining agent of S.H.I.E.L.D to become a nameless face with no birth certificate, social security number or its equivalent in other countries. Every single file ever recorded was gone in a matter of seconds, the system itself rendered useless. It was Fury's last resort, and one he never thought would come to pass.  
Moments later the two of them made a run for the evacuation level as the ship's countdown echoed overhead.

"_30 SECONDS UNTIL IMPACT."_

They braced themselves against the walls of the passageways, alarms growing louder as the ship creaked and shuddered.

"_15 SECONDS UNTIL IMPACT."_

The lights flickered, and the closer they got to their destination the darker it became. Red warning lights flashed steadily in time to the alarms in the dark towards the few remaining escape pods.

"_10…9…8…7…6…"_

Fury hit the controls to the door and scrambled into the vessel along with Hill.

"_5…4…3..."_

With a loud hiss the door closed tight, and the pod zoomed down the dark narrow passage and into the light.

"2…1…"

The nose of the ship plunged into the surface of the ocean, shattering the glass of the Bridge and flooding it. It continued to dive, breaking into two halves under the force of the impact as a series of explosions from the remaining engines erupted into a huge fiery cloud of heat and black smoke. The flying fortress of Earth's tragically short-lived team of heroes was reduced to flaming wreckage on the ocean's surface, sinking into the cold dark depths of the Atlantic and with it, the future of mankind.

. . .

Coulson tried to contact Fury but each time the line was dead. He lowered the phone from his ear. It took a lot to rattle the likes of agent Phil Coulson, but given the circumstances his initial reaction would have been expected of anyone, no matter the training. When he finally did say something it was down the phone again, after pressing a few buttons and dialling another number. Pepper couldn't believe what she was hearing and seeing on the projections in front of her, and the new images of a great explosion several miles from the east coast was inescapable.

Coulson hung up and turned his attention to Pepper.

"I've arranged to have the items transported to a secure location, but I suggest you also pack anything else of value. And activate any security protocols in place to avoid information being compromised," he spoke coolly.

"You mean to say you're destroying the workshop?" asked Steve.

"If we have to."

Steve clenched his fists and turned suddenly towards the door.

"Steve? Where are you going?" Pepper asked, suddenly aware of his swift movement.

"To get my shield," he replied bluntly, and with a little more anger than was probably necessary.

He stormed up the stairs and headed for his room. When he got there he was quick about ripping the shield from its protective cover, but just as he turned towards the door he caught a glimpse of one of his old black and white framed pictures from the war. It was a small group photo of himself with the Howling Commandos - a little tattered around the edges, but a nice gift given to him from Pepper. The photograph was Howard Stark's, and Tony had found it amongst other things in the large crate that Fury had given him.  
Steve reached for the frame and took out the photograph, quickly tucking it safe in his trouser pocket. He had barely made it into the empty hallway when he heard a loud knock at the front door, followed by a voice demanding entrance to the premises. Steve approached the living area with caution, his shield at the ready as the knocking grew louder and more insistent. He caught sight of Pepper approaching from the corner of his eye and he motioned her to stop.

"Miss Potts!? I am the District Attorney and I have with me very impatient officers and a court order. The Iron Man weapon is a threat to national security and the United States government hereby confiscates it and all related technology."

Pepper cautiously approached a device on the wall beside her to view the security footage. There was indeed a large group of heavily armed police with itchy trigger fingers behind a smartly dressed man. She wanted to press the intercom button and tell the man exactly where he could stick that court order, but she resisted the temptation.

"Miss Potts, if you do not comply we will be forced to use any means necessary to confiscate the weapon."

Steve moved quickly and silently towards her and spoke in a hushed tone.

"Listen to me carefully. I need you to go back downstairs and activate the security system as quickly as you can. As soon as S.H.I.E.L.D gets here you load whatever is packed and leave with agent Coulson. _Do not wait for me_. I'll keep them busy. You got that?"

"Steve –"

"No buts, just do as I say, okay?"

Pepper bit her lip and nodded reluctantly. Then she remembered something.

"Wait! I just need to get one thing!"

She ran past Steve and down the hall into her bedroom, practically sliding across the floor and pulled out a small wooden box with delicate engravings from a secret compartment underneath the bed. Placing it in the nearest bag she could find she dashed back into the living room, clutching it close to her like a small child. When she reached the steps to the workshop she paused and turned to face Steve again. Neither said a word, but they understood each other perfectly.

_Stay safe._

And then Pepper hurried down the steps, out of sight.

Steve turned his attention back towards the door and raised his shield. It was suddenly quiet from all the banging and shouting earlier, but that silence was short lived. A myriad of bullets tore the front door and half of the wall surrounding it to pieces, and Steve ducked for cover behind the sofa as the room became a deadly playground of flying debris. The glass windows cracked and shattered, and then the noise died down somewhat as armed men made their way into the house. Just as they thought it was empty, Steve leapt from behind the tattered seats and began to make a fine mess of the intruders' front teeth and noses as they met his clenched fist and shield. The fight was gritty and dirty, a fight that reminded Steve of his last mission during the War when his blood boiled with rage and an unyielding need to avenge the death of his best friend. If that was the case back in 1945, then in the present time the situation was no different. There were lives to be avenged, and others to be protected, and he would damn well see to it that they would be.

. . .

"_All files are securely encrypted and relocated, Miss Potts."_

"Excellent JARVIS. Now, I need you to activate the security protocol for me."

Just as the AI obliged, Coulson got a call from their ride outside that had just landed, and he made arrangements for the crate to be carried out under the noses of the armed men upstairs. Pepper grabbed her bag and her cell phone then entered one last command into the computer.

"Okay JARVIS, time to play hide and seek."

"_My favourite", _the AI responded humorously, "_Safe journey, Miss Potts."_

"And you."

Pepper smiled faintly then headed out through the garage entrance with Coulson and another agent.

"What about Captain Rogers?" Coulson shouted over the loud whirring of the helicopter's blades. Pepper looked back at the house in the hope that he was on his way that very moment, but any sign of him still remained to be seen in the dull light of evening that was swiftly approaching.

"We're leaving. Captain's orders," she said without meeting Coulson's eye, and boarded.

The concerned agent followed soon after. Within seconds they made their escape, unnoticed and unhindered, all the while Steve continued to fight off the group of officers. When the last had fallen he caught a glimpse of the S.H.I.E.L.D helicopter making its way across the water, and heard a deep rumbling noise that made the floor tremble beneath his feet. Without wasting another second, Steve leapt through the broken windows and dived into the ocean below, barely escaping the massive explosion that was the end of Tony's workshop, his Malibu home, and any armour left behind.

. . .

London, England.  
8 months later…

A broadcast of the recent violent clashes on the streets of London played out on a small TV set - its sound almost inaudible. The room was completely dark, lit only by the flickering luminescence of the news feed, but it was enough to reveal the disarray that was the upper-most apartment in a building not far from Trafalgar Square. It was close to midnight, about quarter past eleven according to Big Ben, on New Year's Eve. But hardly a soul could be heard or seen wandering the streets, at least not with any intention of welcoming the New Year. The pavements and roads were littered with broken glass and items left behind from mass lootings, and abandoned taxis that had been set fire to during the frequent raids and riots lay scattered amongst the carnage. It was a sight not uncommon in other parts of the world too.

Though he had not gained complete control over very many countries, Loki had successfully laid the foundations of his new empire by allowing chaos to take the reins. For the most part, much of the world was divided into two sides: those loyal to Loki's cause (mostly fuelled by the lingering doubt and hate he had freed in their hearts through countless television broadcasts), and those who dared to stand against him. The latter was much less organised than the first, and mainly comprised of separate resistance camps and military units that worked independently through lack of trust.

When Loki's followers began to form extremist groups from within governments, institutions and the general public, all out civil war crept onto the streets of major cities around the globe, invaded homes, divided families, and left millions dead or dying. Regimes fell or became more corrupt to suit Loki's ideals, and no country that remained strong enough to sustain any form of government trusted any of its neighbours or former allies. Old ties had been strained to their breaking point, and it all played out wonderfully for Loki. That is, all but the lingering resistance that would not yield, no matter how hopeless things seemed. It was a quality that Loki both admired and loathed in the human race. Such a thing could easily be inspired in his followers given the right encouragement, but for reasons beyond his understanding it was always so much stronger in the hearts of his enemies.

The sound of a mobile phone ringing broke the eerie silence in the apartment, and the silhouette of a female figure appeared sluggishly from the couch facing the TV, arms stretching upwards as she yawned and reached for the source of the noise on the armrest.

"Yeah?" she croaked, clearing her throat a little. There was a long pause before she stood suddenly.

"Are you sure!?"

Her voice suddenly sounded more desperate, and she darted towards the nearby window to peer through the curtains cautiously. "Don't! Don't go anywhere, okay? Just stay off the streets. I'll come to you."

The nervous woman hung up and reached for her coat –plain black and rather weathered with several missing buttons – and wrapped an old tattered navy scarf around her neck, raising it so that only a pair of curious blue eyes could be seen below a messy nest of long chestnut curls. In no time at all she had left the room and stepped cautiously onto the empty street. It was bathed in a pale moonlight which inspired all sorts of odd shadows to fall, and the narrow passages between buildings were almost pitch-black.  
Another figure peered gingerly from one of the dark alcoves across the street and immediately flinched back, afraid of being seen by unwanted eyes. The cloaked woman took a quick but thorough glance at her surroundings to ensure they weren't been watched before continuing.

"Fine weather for a stroll this evening, don't you think?" a voice whispered from the dark.

"Cid, I know it's you," the woman whispered back, blatantly unimpressed.

A young man wearing a long black coat and sporting a vibrant head of red hair stepped forward a little so that he made himself known to the woman, remaining cautious enough not to leave the safety of the shadows.

"I _can't believe_ you're not taking this thing seriously," said the man, quite flustered.

"_I _can't believe _you_ _are_. Besides, you're not doing a very good job. Anyone could've spotted your red hair from the other side of London. The whole point of appearing unnoticed is to _remain_ unnoticed." She rubbed her hands in the cold and eyed the freezing fog making its way towards them from the end of the street. "Were you followed?"

"No, been real careful."

He peered around the corner feebly.

"I'm nervous, okay? And I have every reason to be, given the circumstances." He pulled up his collar so that it pushed up a tuft of ginger hair at the back of his neck, still looking around apprehensively. "Though, if you ask me, the streets are _far_ too quiet."

The woman shushed her friend as she ushered him back down the narrow alley he had been waiting in, following close behind. When they reached what appeared to be a manhole, Cid opened it and went down first, turning on a small flashlight as he reached the bottom. The young woman did the same.

"This is dangerous, Cid. It's going against protocol."

"Well I wasn't going to sit and wait for them to contact me. I'd have better luck getting through to a human being on a broadband customer service line than hearing anything from HQ. Besides, I'm not sure it's really any less dangerous where I was."

They walked further into the darkness, the sound of running water and their footsteps echoing around them, and the occasional scurrying of a rat rattled their nerves. Eventually they reached another passageway which took them directly to one of the tracks of the abandoned London Underground.

"On the phone, you said you found something. What's happened?"

Cid paused a moment before he answered.

"Hell has happened."

They approached a large, reinforced door at the side of the tracks, and Cid stood aside for the woman to swipe an ID card over a small black pad on the wall beside it. An LED light flickered green and the door clicked, allowing the two figures to enter a secret level of offices right under the city itself. It was S.H.I.E.L.D's London base of operations, one of only a few scattered across the globe, and known only by a select few of S.H.I.E.L.D's senior operatives.  
The main room was brightly lit and full of busy agents attending rows of computer monitors.

"Davies! What the _**hell **_are you doing here!? Why is _**he**_ here!?" An angry-looking agent asked one of his assistants before approaching them from the far-side of the room. Cid took in a deep breath to calm his nerves, preparing to string out a long-winded excuse. He was instantly cut-off however.

"And agent Stevens too? Does someone want to tell me _**what**_in the name of _**fuck**_ is going on!?"

"Sir, agent Davies believes that he has discovered something that requires your immediate attention. I felt it necessary to escort him here."

"And that discovery would be?"

"He hasn't quite told me…" Agent Stevens muttered as Cid opened his mouth to say something but was rudely cut off yet again.

"I see. Stevens, does this look like a bloody bed and breakfast to you? Because I'm getting the _distinct_ feeling a lot of you are treating it that way."

She didn't say anything but mentally she was knocking his block off, and grinning at the thought too.

The senior agent turned to Cid again.

"Well then, Davies. Care to share this news that was _so important_ you had to put the entire safety of this team in jeopardy?"

"Sir –Johnson's cover was blown. They got to him. I couldn't do anything, not without risking my own. After they took him, I got cold feet. I couldn't trust using the phones, so I panicked. I had to get the information here some other way."

Stevens suddenly felt sick to her stomach. They had lost many agents already, far too many good ones too. But it was rare to hear that one of S.H.I.E.L.D's top spies had been captured and rarer still when no record of their identity even existed.

"Is that it?"

Stevens looked to her superior in complete shock at the lack of emotion in his voice.

"And you had to come all the way here to tell me that? Why didn't you stick to protocol?" the senior agent spat out.

"To hell with protocol! I was sitting on death row in there!" Cid shouted. The other agents in the room turned their heads from their screens to watch. Even Stevens seemed surprised at such an outburst.

"The things I've seen – no level of training prepares you for that. You're all sat here in your comfortable rabbit hole, away from the _real_ danger that's _**up there**_. To hell with you, all of you! I'm not going back out there..."

Something inside the young man cracked then, and he smiled wryly as he spoke.

"…I'm done."

Agent Stevens could relate, because she was out there in the thick of it too, seeing the riots on the streets first hand. But Cid had it far worse. He'd been appointed to do some snooping within the increasingly corrupt government, some under-cover work, and every minute, _every second_, he was at risk of being exposed. Being caught wasn't the worst of it though; it was the horrors that person would be subjected to that were truly terrifying.

"Cid…" She muttered, but he would not look her in the eye.

"That's not up to you," the senior agent said flatly. "Johnson's situation is unfortunate. But, what I want to know is how they found him. There's no record for Loki's men to find. Someone had to have _known_ _who he was_."

All eyes in the room were on Cid, but the agent said nothing. He didn't have to.

The damage had already been done.

They all heard a loud rumbling noise above before it rolled towards the main entrance and blew the entire wall clear across the room, sending the agents hurtling into the rows of desks behind them. Immediately, a swarm of heavily armed men in military uniform flooded through the gaping hole and began to open fire.

Agent Stevens scrambled on all fours and hid behind an upturned desk. Her hair was matted and stuck to her forehead and face in long, bloodied strands. Her vision was fuzzy, and her head throbbed, but she still managed somehow to reach for her gun and sit herself upright against the back of the desk. Across the room she could make out a flash of red hair – Cid – hiding behind a wall of rubble and furniture. Cid looked at her, his friend, the only one who he had ever really trusted, and who had _trusted him_.

"I'm sorry, Grace," he said, though she could barely read his lips let alone hear him over the gunfire and screams. There was genuine regret in the way he looked at her, but there was also fear and exhaustion, the look of a man that had been forced to balance on the edge of oblivion with no one to save him from falling. Grace could hear the distant sound of Big Ben ringing in the New Year, a twisted irony as the last S.H.I.E.L.D stronghold in the country was broken.

Then Cid turned and made a run for it through the maze of upturned tables, escaping into the night, and she never saw him again.


	8. Words From The Great Beyond

So, here is chapter 8. I hope it's as entertaining to read as it was writing it - and pleasantly surprises you too ;)  
Once again, many thanks to the lovely npeg for editing a huge chunk of it. Her way with words is magical I swear ;_; 3

Songs on constant repeat were:

"Your Revolution Is A Joke" – Funeral for A Friend

"Bad Dream" – Keane (I am cry TT_TT)

"Comeback" – Redlight King

As per usual, I don't own anything. Descriptions of and references to actual locations are purely for fictional purposes based on the MCU continuity etc.

Also, you could fry an egg on my laptop right now...

* * *

_Words from the Great Beyond_

1 mile south of Silver City, New Mexico...

A jeep pulled up outside a small military camp of sorts and several men, dressed in black, exited the vehicle. Members of the camp had been monitoring the jeep's approach carefully, and out of precaution they had wasted no time in stationing a welcoming committee at the campsite's perimeter. The strangers stopped before a barricade of guards, each wearing standard-issue bulletproof vests and armed with a rifle. They bore a red band on their left arms, a symbol of their allegiance. Two of the men, one a little shorter than the other and both armed, moved towards the front of the line and stood between the entrance and the approaching strangers, denying them access.

"You lost?" The shorter guard asked sarcastically.

One of the strangers stepped forward and made his position perfectly clear. The eye-patch spoke for itself.

It was Colonel Nicholas Fury himself, apparently in good health too, despite barely escaping "death" 8 months earlier. The two men lowered their weapons a little but remained dubious.

"Thought you were 'sposed to be lyin' dead somewheres?" The shorter guard drawled at him. "You're lookin' pretty spritely for a dead guy."

"I want to see your commanding officer," said Fury, blankly ignoring his comment.

"'Fraid he's not here," the guard responded flatly, giving the men in front of him a repugnant look. "Doesn't take too kindly to S.H.I.E.L.D thugs – says they can't be trusted."

The other guard adjusted his grip on his rifle but said nothing. The air was certainly heavy with contempt, almost mimicking a classic stand-off as long silences and threatening glares were exchanged. Then Fury smirked.

"I have an idea. Why don't you tell me where he is, and I'll let Rambo here keep his knee caps," he said, nodding at the silent guard who – incidentally – was the heaviest one there. He was built like a brick shithouse, most likely a bodyguard or guerrilla in his previous occupation, and didn't say much at all. Fury continued, "Then the two of you can get back to playing with your toy soldiers."

The smaller guard squeezed his rifle, clearly irked.

"How's 'bout you and your goon squad take a hike, huh? Before I put a bullet in your good eye."

As the exchange continued, growing more heated – and the threats more violent, a young man working on a broken army radio unit overheard the argument from one of the tents and cautiously made his way over to the barricade, to see what all the fuss was about.

"I asked nicely, but you're getting on my last nerve," said Fury with growing impatience as he moved a hand to his holster. "Tell me where your commanding officer is or I'll paint the desert with your insides." His hand touched the butt of his gun as he sneered, "Just to make a point."

"Are you looking for Commander Rogers?" asked a new voice.

This brought the stand-off to an abrupt halt. Fury and the other men stopped and turned their heads.

"And if I am?" said Fury, a little annoyed at the interruption.

The young man stood rather sheepishly. Brushing his impossibly luscious sweeping brown hair out of his eyes, he blinked, looking between the two groups before clearing his throat to speak again.

"Well, if you _are _looking for him, he's not at the camp."

Fury raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

The young man nodded.

"Do you know where he is now?" Fury asked.

The smaller guard seemed rather pissed at the young man's interfering and shot him an unsavoury look, snapping, "Mind your own business, Parker. We're not cooperating with the likes o' them, so keep your mouth _shut_."

Fury narrowed his eyes at the guard before turning back to the jeep with his men. He motioned for the young man to come to him.

"Parker, is it?"

The man nodded in affirmation. "Peter Parker, sir," he addressed the director correctly and concisely, "Engineer Officer." He shot a look at the two guards frowning behind them. "_They're_ not cooperating with you, but I don't see why I shouldn't."

Fury smiled as Peter said, "Commander Rogers is in Silver City, about a mile north of here."

"Can you take us to him?"

Peter nodded and slid into the jeep with the rest of the S.H.I.E.L.D men. He noticed the resentful looks on the guards' faces and smiled mockingly as they drove off up the dirt road, waving cheerfully just to rub salt into the wound.

"If you don't mind me asking sir…" Peter began, "What's the deal with S.H.I.E.L.D? I mean, I thought it was defunct after Loki's men levelled the bases months ago. Until just now, I guess we all did. Commander Rogers hasn't heard from anyone since the attacks on Central. He told me you were dead."

"I am," Fury said coolly, "Or at least that's what I want Loki to keep thinking. Lucky for everyone, those bases weren't the only ones out there."

"So you've been in hiding, all this time?"

"Not hiding – lying low."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

Fury eyed the inquisitive young man next to him as Parker continued to speak.

"What about Washington? What about LA and the rest of the country that needed S.H.I.E.L.D's help? Where were you when the country was falling apart? Why aren't you helping?"

"We _are_ helping," Fury replied flatly.

"Doesn't seem that way to me," Peter bit back.

The director didn't flinch at all when he spoke, just stared at the boy who stared right back, waiting for a response. He had a lot of nerve for a kid barely out of high school, and that reminded Fury of Rogers' frankness in a way. So the director just smiled enigmatically, and answered.

"Then we're doing our jobs just fine."

Peter didn't know what to make of that, and the director's stare was becoming very intimidating.

"He's right about you," said Peter, refusing to break eye-contact, "You really are crooked."

Fury leaned forward. "Let me give you a nickel's worth of advice, kid. _Keep_ your secrets. They'll come after you if you set them free."

. . .

Like most places since Loki's influence took hold, Silver City had seen better days. It had the look and feel of a ghost town. There was more life in its cemetery than in the few remaining inhabitants who chose to stay after the riots.  
A little ways into the town was a small church. Many of its stained-glass windows had been smashed, its furniture upturned or looted, but there remained a row of candles at the altar, and one of them burned faintly in the dim light.  
Steve sat at the end of the front row, watching the candle's flame dance in the still air. He often came to this place to find some peace – to be alone with his thoughts. There was very little solitude anywhere in the camp, and even less compassion for that matter, so moments such as these were rare.  
He'd been staring at the flickering light for some time, recalling things from recent memory – fights against the growing strength of Loki's forces and his supporters, men and women who considered Loki a prophet and worshipped him. It pained Steve immensely to think that so many people believed in such a monster and that so many of them had killed or had _been killed_ in his name. More times than he could count Steve had come to this place to close his eyes against the present, and yet _more_ times he had prayed to God that when he opened them he would wake from this nightmare. But God never answered, and the nightmare never ceased.

"Please…" Steve muttered to the small lick of flame, "Give me strength. Show me the way – _a_ way – to _end_ this."

The small flame flickered, and an entirely unexpected voice replied.

"I think we may be able to answer that prayer, soldier."

Steve turned abruptly to see Fury stood by the church's entrance. The director walked slowly down the aisle, hands behind his back, the heels of his boots clicking on the dusty tiled surface.

"Took us a while to find you, Captain."

"Didn't think you were lookin'," said Steve, turning to face the altar again. Fury sat down next to him. "And it's Commander now."

"So I heard," Fury smiled. "Had the pleasure of meeting some of your men back at the camp. Fine group you got there. Where'd you dig 'em up? The state sanatorium?"

Steve's jaw tensed. "They're loyal and willing to fight for their country," he muttered, "I can't ask for more than that."

"They're mercenaries with itchy trigger fingers," Fury said pointedly. "They don't care _what_ they shoot, as long as they get to shoot something."

"Sounds like some people I used to know," Steve said coldly, remembering New York. Those memories had made him increasingly bitter when it came to questions of loyalty. Trusting S.H.I.E.L.D had done very little to save the world from itself thus far. In fact, it had all but brought this disaster down upon their heads, singlehandedly. The division was at the very least instrumental in the apparent downfall of government, society, and civilisation as they knew it. No. There was no way he was going to be that naïve again.

"Steve… We need you," Fury said quietly, eyes on the broken crucifix hanging above the altar before them. "Hell, the _world _needs you. But you're not making a mark on Loki's page riding from town to town with a band of misfits. This isn't the A-Team."

"And you are, are you?" Steve snapped. "Tell me, where was S.H.I.E.L.D when this country slipped into hell?"  
Peter could hear his words thunder down the aisle through the opening in the doorway, and moved slowly, inconspicuously, to peer inside.

"In fact, why _don't you_ explain _**why**_? _**Why **_are we in hell,Nick?"

Surprisingly, Fury didn't seem as stunned by Steve's outburst as Peter was. The young man was still stood in the doorway, eavesdropping on his leader and the mysterious agent sat next to him. Steve knew he was listening, and it offered his temper some validity, in a way. He wanted Peter to see the extent of his feelings for S.H.I.E.L.D, and to understand the reason for them.

"Steve –"

"–I haven't heard a _word_ from you since Loki took Washington," Steve retorted angrily, interrupting. "You were dead as far as I knew. And S.H.I.E.L.D? S.H.I.E.L.D. was a smoking wreck in the harbour, empty buildings and empty files. Months I spent recruiting those men and women, fightin' Loki's bootlickers. _Months_. They're some sort of… of _cult_ now. They seek out families who don't support him and beat them in the streets until they're too blind with fear to see any differently. Those _mercenaries_ you met,in that camp? They help protect the people who can't pull that trigger. They're willing to put themselves, their safety, their _lives_, on the line to protect the ones who can't protect themselves – _every damn day_." Steve was breathing heavily as he spat out, "So _**don't tell me**_ we're _not making a difference_. You don't get to say that, because you're not _here_. You haven't _been_ here for a long, _long_ time."

"Look, just because we're not guarding the barricades doesn't mean we're not fighting the war," said Fury earnestly, after a long moment. "We've not been idle in exile, Commander. We've been… working… on something – something that I believe could not only _match_ Loki's forces but actually _run them into the ground_. And with my best man on board, we might just be able to pull it off."

Steve narrowed his eyes at the Director questioningly. This sounded an awful lot like Phase-2 business, and after New York, the weapons that had cost him the lives of two of his comrades-in-arms were the very, _very_ last thing Steve wanted to involve himself with. He wanted nothing to do with WMDs because it was WMDs that had got them here in the first place.

"What is it?" he asked curtly, instead.

"Your uniform," Fury smiled, "Your _new_ uniform."

"Really?" Steve said drily, unmoved by Fury's great reveal. "You're offering me an _outfit_, Fury? I appreciate the offer, but the one I'm wearing works just fine." He patted his vest to make his point as he stood to leave. He had barely made it to the aisle before the Director spoke again.

"It's a lot more than just an _outfit_, Commander," said Fury, determined to make his point before Steve could disappear. "I'm offering you a suit."

As he moved to walk away, Fury said clearly, just loudly enough, "It belonged to a friend of yours – one Anthony _Stark_."

Steve stopped suddenly. He muddled his words under his breath, trying to make sense of what Fury was actually proposing, but at the doorway Peter was struggling to contain his excitement. The young man made a choking noise, and that caught the attention of the two men inside the church.

Busted.

Fury, for one, was more than a little pissed at his snooping. Steve was hardly surprised, considering he actually knew anything about Peter at all.

The director beckoned Peter in with a crooked finger. "Got something to add, Parker?"

Peter cleared his throat. "Sorry, sir, I just… I overheard you say something about Mr Stark and a… a suit?" He paused for a second or two, literally feeling the holes being burned into him by the intense glares of the two men down the aisle. "It's just, I'm a huge fan of his work – I mean, I was – I still am…! And I could, y'know, maybe, help out? I know a lot about –"

Steve glanced over his shoulder at Fury before eying the young man in the doorway.

"Not interested," he said flatly, cutting Peter off, and marched up the aisle and out of the church.

An old Harley was parked on the curb just outside, and Steve was quick about sitting his ass down on the seat. A moment later, Peter skidded out of the church, appearing at his elbow.

"Sir, I really think you should go with Director Fury," Peter insisted, "That armour could help us. We don't have that kind of offensive capacity anymo–"

"That armour isn't helping _anybody_," Steve snapped, more violently than he intended. His fingers tightened on the bike's handlebars.

He had every intention of riding away, far away, anywhere to escape S.H.I.E.L.D's hands. They were bad news, but just like his past, they were impossible to outrun. He just sat there instead, his hands on the handlebars, waiting for Fury's attempt to convince him that what they had planned was really their ticket out of hell. And, right on cue, Fury stepped out of the church and made his way over.

"I don't see why you can't get someone else to pilot it – someone who understands how it works," said Steve.

"It's one thing to know how to use it, but how you put it to use is what really counts."

Then, straitening his posture, Fury made his next words very clear.

"I'm not looking for a pilot. I'm looking for a _leader_. And take it from me; they aren't the kinds of things you build in a workshop. Leaders are born, not made."

Steve squeezed the handlebars of his bike yet tighter.

"Sorry to disappoint," he murmured, "but I'm not the guy you're lookin' for."

Then he revved the engine and sped off up the road northbound, out of town. He didn't look back.

Peter was stunned at the soldier's response. No one in their right mind would turn down the opportunity to pilot Tony's armour, especially considering doing so was essentially tantamount to flat out refusing possibly the World's only chance of winning the war. Steve Rogers had done both in the space of less than five minutes without batting an eyelid. He frowned sharply.

"I should go after him," he said before Fury held out an arm to stop him.

"Easy, hotshot. He'll make the right choice, just give him some time," the Director insisted, watching the bike grow fainter in the dust trail rising in its wake.

"Besides," Fury added, "I've got a pretty good idea where he's going."

. . .

Steve drove for hours, barely stopping unless it was completely necessary. It gave him time to really think about Fury's request, and more importantly _why_ he was running away from it. But the more he thought about it the less he understood. He couldn't find an answer. So, he kept on driving.  
Before he knew it he had driven almost 700 miles through three states without much recollection of how and for how long. He found himself on the war-torn streets of Los Angeles, keeping the low growl of his Harley off of any main roads in the fading light. Evening was fast approaching, but that would not guarantee him adequate cover from the ever-watchful eyes of Loki's men.

Why on earth had he come to such a place? Major cities were dangerous – far too heavily populated despite civil unrest, and almost entirely under Loki's control. But, despite his usual clear-headed reasoning, despite his caution, his cold logic, something had pulled him back to the state of California.

A little further into the city he came across a place that tugged at a memory. It seemed so… familiar. He pulled up outside its borders, cutting the ignition as he parked the dust-ridden bike by the curb. Rubbing his dry eyes he blinked at his surroundings in the dim light, and then it hit him like a freight train.

He'd been here before.

The trees, the lush grass – a little overgrown and obviously unkempt – and the crisp white of the headstones that lined the grounds pulled him in. Steve wandered along its path with strange remembrance, knowing the way to a destination he had seldom visited. Why he had come, for what reason in its unhinged state his mind had urged him to travel such a distance, he was not yet certain. But as he passed the faceless names inscribed on the rows upon rows of stone and granite gravestones, he knew that it was of great importance, because he realised then that he had come a long way to visit someone.

He stopped when he reached the name he had been looking for, and after allowing himself a little time to gather his thoughts, he spoke.

"Hey, Tony."

Steve stood before the black marble headstone in quiet contemplation, his mind still unsettled as he struggled to piece together a speech of some kind.

"I suppose you're wondering why I'm here," he sighed. "Truth is… I don't really know myself."

Steve's reflection glared back at him with judgemental eyes from within the gloss finish, waiting for him to speak the words he had come so far to say. But they would not leave his lips. Instead, they lingered there on the tip of his tongue, refusing to find his voice. He knew what that suit, that armour, could do. Fury had offered it to him freely, and with it, he had offered him power; power to change their fate. The fate of the resistance. They could be masters of their fate once more. The armour could unite them – a symbol in the discord and terror of Loki's rule, the chaos he had wrought.

But could he do it?

In his heart, Steve wanted some confirmation, some form of consent – the kind he could only get from Tony. He wanted to know that piloting the suit was the _right thing to do_, not only because he lacked the skills to use it, but because it was not his or any other's to pilot in the first place. After all, that technology had been kept from the government for a reason.

"What do I do?" he murmured to the cold blank stone, desperately hoping for a reply and expecting none.

What use was there in talking now? He could ask questions all he liked, but it would not bring him any closer to finding the answers.

"I'm not sure if I can do what you could – the suit, I mean. It's – it's not _me_," he began, clearing his throat as he chose his words carefully. "It's flashy and, well, _very you_… but that kind of power… it's not something I can control…"

Suddenly, Steve's monologue was interrupted by an impossibly familiar voice behind him.

"_Well, it __**is **__flashy I'll give you that one. But I think the colour really suits you."_

The soldier whipped round in surprise, practically giving himself whiplash, to see someone in that moment that he honestly could not have expected less. The familiar figure was leaning arms crossed against another headstone, with no respect for its owner. He wore a pair of dark jeans and a familiar Black Sabbath T over a long sleeved shirt that clung to his frame. The man's dark eyes studied the soldier curiously and he pulled one of his trade-mark smug faces.

Tony Stark, a man who had been dead – _was dead _– for almost a year stood there in perfect health in the light of dusk. Steve didn't know whether to slap himself or bolt.

"_Brings out your eyes,"_ the late-genius continued.

"T-T-To –"Steve stammered.

"_What's this – Spangles speechless?" _ Tony grinned._ "Glad to see I still make an impression. More successful with the ladies, though. Usually."_

Steve closed his mouth after gaping like a slapped carp and gulped nervously, but his expression of utter astonishment remained. If his eyes had opened any wider he would have accurately resembled a Tim Burton character.

"But you're… _**you're –**_"

"–_Excruciatingly handsome? Why yes, yes I am –"_

"–_**dead**_," Steve managed to force out. The smaller man unfolded his arms and pushed himself lazily from the headstone to stand before him.

"_That's also true,"_ the apparition said smugly. Steve's head swam.

"I think I need to lie down," he muttered.

Steve turned suddenly to make his way back down the path, back to his bike. He made a point about keeping his eyes focused straight ahead of him as he sped through the maze of graves. The poor man was too scared out of his wits to look back – but he didn't expect to be followed.

"_That all you came here to say?" _the familiar voice spoke again. Tony – or at least the person that _appeared_ to be Tony – was stood by a large monument of a marble-angel, his face far more serious than it had been just moments before. Steve stopped then and barely plucked up the courage to face him.

"_Seems an awful long way to come just to ramble on about the suit's aesthetics."_

Steve exhaled slowly, looking Tony point-blank in the eye. "You're not real and I'm not having this conversation. I just drove hundreds of miles on next to no sleep and I don't remember half of it. I'm tired and obviously hallucinating right now, so I'm gonna be rational about this. I'm gonna put," he gestured at Tony vaguely, eyes tired, "_this_ down to sleep deprivation and hyper-vigilance, and leave – before I _completely_ lose my wits."

Tony just grinned.

"_Who says you're hallucinating?"_

. . .

The two men sat on a bench beneath a tree in the graveyard. The warm glow of the fleeting sun grew weaker as the cool breeze of night slowly began to take its place. Orange burnt to red and faded to black as the sun dipped lower past the horizon, and the wind disturbed the branches of the tree, causing two lone birds to take flight. Steve, against any logic or reason he had left to muster, had chosen to stay and talk to the friendly apparition of his former teammate, deciding it was only fair to fill him in on what had happened since they lost New York. He deserved to know, whatever he was.

"You know, I think this is the longest conversation we've ever had, and I'm not even sure if you're real." Steve rubbed his face as he continued to chuckle at his own ridiculous situation. "Guess I'm finally losing my mind… Surprised it took this long, to be honest."

Tony shrugged._ "Not surprising, really. But doesn't that sum up the human race? You spend a lifetime only speaking to someone when you want something from them, and being spoken to only when someone else wants what you have. There's less time for talk and more time for e mails, instant messaging, __**tweeting**__…" _Tony said the final word mockingly.

"_And no one ever really listens. Nope. It's only when you're pushin' up daisies that they finally want to talk for the sake of talking." Tony smiled. "And you have all the time in the world to listen then." _

Steve stared at the "figment of his imagination" through a gap in his fingers.

"_And __**you**__, gramps?" _Tony continued,_ "__**You've **__been talking to a tombstone and listening to words on the wind for God knows how long."_ He gestured towards the soldier by his side to emphasise his point.

"Well, I didn't expect a _reply_," Steve said flatly. He dragged the hand down his face, leaving it limp on his lap as he continued to stare in disbelief.

"_I'm insulted,"_ said the late genius, a little sarcastically. _"I always answer the calls I think are worth my attention. I mean, I took time out of my busy schedule to hear what you had to say, didn't I? And this is the thanks I get? I had a date with Marilyn Monroe, y'know."_ He smirked playfully.

"Who?"

"_Never mind," _Tony grinned, rolling his eyes._ "Wow, you really are a walking piece of history aren't you? You're like one of those time capsules that people bury in their back yard so aliens can dig them up in the distant future and learn about our insignificant little lives, or something."_

Steve didn't seem amused by Tony's attempt to add a little more humour to the situation and glared at him instead; more confused now than he was when the man had first appeared. Tony could see a hint of fear there too. After all, the poor guy was sat talking to a ghost, if that's what he was actually talking to. For all Steve knew he was imagining the whole thing.

Tony could have mocked him until the world stopped turning, but he didn't. The guy may have been an easy target for his jesting, and more than a little clueless when it came to popular culture, but there was a time and place for that. Tony knew that this was neither one of them.

His smile waned.

"_Wanna tell me why you're __**really **__here then?"_

"I think you already know why," said Steve, bowing his head.

"_If this is about taking up Fury's offer, about wearing the suit, then what's stopping you? And don't give me that technophobic crap – anyone can pilot it. It's like riding a bike, only without the wheels. And instead of pedals you got a miniaturised ARC reactor, and ion cyclotron resonance frequency booster antennas."_

Steve's brow furrowed. "How the hell is any of what you just said supposed to convince me?"

"_It's not. __**I **__can't convince you to wear it, Cap. Neither can Fury." _Tony pointed a finger at the slumped soldier by his side. "_The only one who can convince you is __**you**__."_

And just like that, both the problem and its solution knocked Steve out of his emotional rut like a convenient Haymaker to the face. He knew then what had_ truly_ been holding him back. It wasn't S.H.I.E.L.D, or the mechanics of the suit, or waiting for Tony's approval. Of course all of these factors had stopped him from leading the cavalry like he had in times long since past. But that was only because he had _let them_ hold him back.

No one else doubted him but himself.

He lifted his head to say something to the auspicious apparition, but the distant sounds of civil unrest in the city grabbed his attention. When he turned again, Tony was gone.

. . .

"Glad you decided to take my offer," said Fury, who had been standing by the waiting aircraft like he was expecting the soldier to show up eventually. Steve stepped forward, bag in one hand and his shield in the other, acknowledging the glares of his men by the camp as he did so. They knew he was leaving, and accepted that fact. But they didn't have to like it.

"I've agreed to see what you're so certain will end the war. I haven't decided anything yet," Steve said dryly, passing the director without so much as a second glance as he boarded the jet.

"Commander!" Peter called from his seat, a mixture of surprise and glee to see him there. Actually, it was Steve who was more surprised to see Peter.

"What are you doing here Peter?" he asked directly.

The young man opened his mouth to answer but Fury stepped in.

"– Young Parker here has expressed his wish to help with the project. He's quite the eager individual. Wouldn't take no for an answer so - thought I'd give him a shot. That a problem, soldier?"

"Depends on your definition of the word _problem_," said Steve, eyes still fixed on Peter. He really didn't like the idea of him falling into S.H.I.E.L.D's hands, especially being so young. But the simmering determination in the boy's eyes was a quality Steve valued highly, and he'd grown rather fond of him. He couldn't abandon his friend now, could he?

"Sir, I just want to help …" the young man began, "…and I think I'll be a lot more useful working with S.H.I.E.L.D than I would fixing-up old junk back at camp. I'm not exactly popular with the group; the whole atmosphere is like senior high all over again. I think they blame me for you leaving, and right now the thought of spending a night surrounded by trained killers with a grudge doesn't sound very appealing."

He cracked a brief but nervous smile before pursing his lips and straightening his posture.

"_Please_ – just give me a chance. I won't let you down, I swear."

Steve sighed and gave in to his friend's pleading. "I know you won't," he said, patting Peter on the shoulder as he moved to place his things in an overhead carrier above his seat.

The team took their seats in the aircraft – a design similar to the Quinjet – and it departed soon after towards its destination, somewhere eastbound.  
Steve took the journey as a good opportunity to ask Fury some questions that were long overdue.

"So where is it we're headed? Thought you were runnin' low on bases," he asked the director sat in the seat opposite.

"We're not short on lodging Commander, I assure you," Fury answered coolly. "There are 28 covert bases scattered across the globe – back-up bases, created for emergencies such as these. Although I don't think anyone could've imagined the situation we're in right now."

"Aren't you worried that Loki will find them? You said they're secret, but so were all the others he snuffed out."

"He'll have to play a good game of Battleships to find all of them. I'm the only one who knows the exact location of all 28."

That was certainly news to both Steve and Peter, whose eyebrows shot up in unison.

"If Loki wants those bases he'll need _me_. As far as he's aware, I'm out of the picture," the director continued. "And to answer your first question; it's a base on the East Coast – an island, near Bronx -"

"–New York?" Steve added with surprise. Fury nodded.

"Everything 15 miles from lower Manhattan is abandoned, for the most part. This island is one of the 28."

Steve fell silent, and Peter noticed his sudden withdrawal from the conversation, no doubt based on the surprising reveal of where they were headed. He tried to help by changing the conversation.

"I heard Dr Banner worked for you," Peter began. "I read about him and his work. Will he be onboard the project too, in some away?"

"I'm afraid not," Fury replied solemnly. "Our last encounter with Dr Banner was with his alter ego, about 6 months ago just north of the Canadian border. According to intel he was captured by Loki soon after, and hasn't been sighted since."

Peter frowned. Steve too was quite unsettled, but more at the idea of Loki possibly gaining control of the Hulk than of Banner's absence in S.H.I.E.L.D's labs.

Several thousand miles and a hefty dose of jetlag later, the aircraft landed on a secluded island east of Bronx, New York. The buildings there looked old and derelict – hardly the image of a sophisticated covert law-enforcement agency – surrounded by overgrown foliage and trees that offered them convenient camouflage. At the landing site was agent Coulson, and Steve was openly relieved and happy to see him again, making sure to ask if Pepper was safe and feeling reassured to know that she was perfectly fine and on the island too.  
Coulson escorted the men into one of the old buildings and through a set of doors before entering what appeared to be an elevator. They then descended 200ft to where the real base of operations was located.

"Here it is, Commander," Fury announced proudly as the doors slid open. "Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D's weapons development headquarters."

The underground warehouse was very impressive. There were aircraft of varying sizes, men and women busy tending to complicated-looking machinery, even testing some of it. And the place itself was huge – similar in size and appearance to a military hangar. Steve noted that the ceiling must have reached a little over 190 ft from the ground.

"I believe you've already met Lt Col James Rhodes. He's in charge of all Stark tech."

Rhodey stepped forward and shook Steve's hand firmly.

"Good to see you again, Captain Rogers."

"And you," said Steve, "but it's Commander now. I don't don the uniform these days."

"Sorry to hear that, because we have something I think you'll find rather impressive."

The Lt Col directed the group towards a section of the warehouse that had been sectioned-off. In the centre of the space, surrounded by computers, there stood an empty platform. But just behind it, supported by large mechanical arms, was a familiar sight.

"The _Iron Patriot_ – or IP 1 unit for short," Rhodey announced.

Rhodey was right – Steve was certainly impressed. The armour was everything he had remembered seeing in Tony's workshop, and more. But instead of the familiar colours it was decorated in striking red and blue over polished silver. More than that, the resemblance to his old stars and stripes uniform was uncanny, the pale blue light of its ARC reactor radiating through a star-shaped protector on its chest-plate.

"It was originally the Mark IV, but we gave it a few tweaks and upgraded its munitions. What you see here is the most advance weapons system we have."

"This. Is. _**So**_. _**Awesome**_!" Peter gawked, moving ahead of the group to take a closer look. "So _this_ is what you were busy doing…"

"We managed to relocate JARVIS to access a number of Tony's blueprints and schematics, but the majority of them are encrypted. There's a lot more we can do to improve the IP 1, to make it more advanced. But without Tony… it's taking a lot longer to get things up to speed, and time isn't something we have a great deal of."

Peter had stopped ogling the armour and found the contents of a neighbouring computer alluring. True to Rhodey's word there were many files – hundreds in fact – that were encrypted and unreadable, and many blueprints for new weapons and designs for the suit that looked incredibly complicated. But Peter was intrigued.

"What's this?" the young man asked, directing Rhodey to plans of some kind displayed on the screen.

Rhodey cracked a smile then. "I think it's time for a demonstration."

The floor beneath the suit opened up, lowering the large mechanical arms and the suit into a secret compartment. Instantly, a number of engineers and programmers returned to their stations, seemingly well-rehearsed in whatever was happening.

"Commander Rogers, would you mind stepping onto the platform?" Rhodey instructed.

Steve blinked, still a little overwhelmed by the situation, but he silently and cautiously obliged. He walked into the centre of the circular stage and turned to face an audience that was gradually expanding, eager to see what was about to happen. They didn't have to wait long, because moments later the floor around his feet slid away and several mechanical arms appeared, each holding a piece of the armour. Steve stayed perfectly still, following Rhodey's instructions carefully until he was almost completely dressed in the shiny IP 1 with only his faceplate to be lowered. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch in complete awe.

"How do you like the new suit now?" Fury called, smiling.

When the mechanical arms recoiled into their secret compartment beneath the floor, Steve moved his arms and flexed his fingers, adjusting to his new outfit. He had to admit, it was pretty damn cool.

"Feels a little stiff… You mind telling me what this thing can do?"

"I have something better in mind," said Rhodey, "I thought we'd take it for a test drive."

"Are you serious?" Steve gaped. "I just got the hang of a cellular phone and you're suggesting I move around in _this_ – _now_?"

Rhodey smiled as he walked over to another set of mechanical arms that dressed him in his own suit of armour.

"Don't worry Commander. It's just like riding a bike."


	9. Suit Up

OKAY! So here is chapter 9! Apologies for taking so long to submit it, but I've been sweating over this one for a while and it caused me a lot of trouble structure-wise. Hope it reads well enough to avoid confusion (ha, that's asking a lot when I'm constantly confusing myself writing this damn thing). Thanks again to the lovely npeg for her glorious editing skills - best beta ever! 3

Anyway, as per, here's some recommended tracks for your reading pleasure:

"Aerodynamic" - Daftpunk

"An Itch" - Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross (The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo OST)

^^Mostly for atmosphere really^^

I don't own anything etc other than OCs. Yep.

** BTW: a "flang-fest" is a term used by storm-chasers when referring to a very active lightning storm. A "flang" is a slang word for lightning that is very close, so close that the thunder accompanies it rather than follows it. /themoreyouknow

Enjoy. And comments/critique always welcome. :)

* * *

_Suit Up_

It was some time during the night, in the wreckage of some forgotten city, that a figure dressed in shining armour took refuge from the skies. The sound of gunfire and explosions surrounded the ruins and with it the gentle crackling of lone flames scattered here and there, steadily eroding all that remained of civilisation. But within the flash of red, blue and silver was Steve, making his way through the smouldering mountains of twisted metal and broken glass with the utmost care. He scanned his surroundings, barren and hazardous, but no life signal appeared on his HUD. Stopping momentarily, he caught the sound of something shifting behind him. He turned, raising his palms as the repulsors hummed in readiness, but there was nothing there. A loose shard of concrete perhaps? Or a rodent? Whatever it was, it wasn't the reason for Steve's uneasiness, because _that _was creeping up on him from someplace else.

A blip in the corner of his HUD caught Steve's attention, and he dived to his right, barely avoiding a large explosion that was meant for him.

"_Almost had you there, Rogers," _Rhodey's voice mocked through his comms. _"I was born for this. You really think you're ready to handle the War Machine?" _

Steve pushed himself up from the ground, a surging wave of determination building in the pit of his stomach. He smiled back.

"Son, I was ready before you were a twinkle in the milkman's eye."

Director Fury, Peter, and Agent Coulson joined a team of technicians in the observation deck, watching the two iron suits battle it out on the other side of the six inch glass. Steve and Rhodey had been fighting for at least an hour in the training simulator before Peter, nose practically pressed against the glass, finally managed to string together a coherent sentence.

"I think he's really starting to get the hang of it –"

A couple of sly moves from Rhodey and a blast or two later and Steve was face-planting the floor.

Again.

Coulson and Peter winced, but Fury didn't seem the least bit affected, or surprised.

"– Or not?"

In all honesty, it wasn't bad for his first try. But Steve was still a little slow when it came to manoeuvring the suit in flight, at least fast enough to dodge an aerial assault.

"Like riding a bike, my ass," Steve muttered to himself as he stood.

Rhodey was nowhere in sight, but as Steve began to pay close attention to the dancing lights on his HUD he noticed something, a tiny arrow flashing in his navigation window. As he turned to his right, sure enough, there was Rhodey, heading towards him at some speed. Rhodey pulled back his fist and put everything he had into the swing as he took a shot at Steve. But instead of meeting its target, his clenched metal hand hit a familiar ring of colour. It was the ghostly projection of Steve's faithful shield, humming quietly like a fluorescent light, and as sturdy as the real thing. It was quite a sight from the observation deck because there was Steve, stood in his defensive stance with his shield raised above his head, the very image of Captain America, but one with a startling 21st Century twist.

Fury smiled at that thought.

Then the simulator ceased, and the bleak battle-ground faded to sterile grey walls.

. . .

Not long after his first training session in his new armour, Steve was thrown abruptly into his next mission. The layers of plating had barely been stripped from his body when Fury appeared at his side, smiling with an air of satisfaction and an "I told you so" kind of glint in his eye.

Steve managed to freshen up and change into his new uniform before being harassed further – a dark navy skin-tight item with a bold white star and stripes motif on the breast. Most S.H.I.E.L.D personnel wore a similar design, only a little less clingy, but Steve often missed his old suit from the war. Seriously, what was the deal with the 21st Century and skin-tight everything?

An assistant handed Steve a towel and he took it, wiping his face as Fury walked with him to another room with a large table and several chairs surrounding it. Fury gave orders for everyone to leave, and only the two of them remained as the doors clicked shut. Steve sat.

"So, now you've got your pilot for your 'secret weapon'," Steve asked, idly throwing the towel on the table, "what's my first mission?"

Fury pressed a few buttons on the keypad in front of him and a holographic map of Europe lit up in the air.

"It concerns Dr Banner," he said coolly.

On the projection several red markers appeared, scattered almost randomly across much of Western Europe, but the majority appeared to be on the Franco-Swiss border. Steve leaned forward to inspect the map more carefully.

"These are spikes in the levels of gamma radiation we've detected over the past eight months. Most are likely weapons tech tapped with Tesseract-energy that Loki's supplied his troops. But that patch right there?" He pointed towards the red blotch on the projection.

"That's what caught my eye."

"What does it mean exactly?" asked Steve.

"Bad news for us. There have been several reported atmospheric disturbances in Europe – in that particular spot in fact, right around the time Banner went off the grid six months ago."

Fury leaned forward, palms flat on the tinted glass surface.

"We think Loki's had Selvig's machine re-built. That means he's capable of opening a portal into space again," Fury said. "And we think that he's had Banner deported. Far. _Far_. Away."

Steve's eyes flicked to Fury as the image zoomed into the patch of red, revealing the complex spider web roads and winding rivers of Geneva.

"Our data points to this location," Fury pointed to the map again. "I'm not sure how familiar you are with Hadron Colliders, but a lot of folks thought what was built beneath the Swiss border was gonna bring about the end of the world. It didn't, but the same can't be said for what _may_ be hidden there now."

"So, Loki's hiding the Cube underground, within some sort of science experiment?"

Fury shrugged. "We can't be sure of that until we have more data. These readings suggest unusual levels of gamma radiation, but they're minute and sporadic at best. It could be weapons of some kind, or something else entirely. But if it _is _what I think it is, there's about 400 ft worth of dirt standing between_ it_ and any real means of detection."

Fury turned off the projection then.

"Commander. We _need to find the Tesseract_ and get it as far away from Loki as possible, before he sends all of us across the intergalactic border…or _worse_…"

And it _would_ be worse – _a lot_ worse – if, God forbid, the _true_ potential of that small, blue cube from hell was ever tapped. The thought of such a thing becoming reality deeply troubled Steve. He fell silent, withdrawn, his eyes studying the tinted glass of the table– looking _through it_ at some terrible prophecy, deep within its murky surface. Steve's sudden distance was something Fury noticed.

"This won't be a one-man mission," he continued slowly, "But suit of armour or no suit of armour – I _need _my response team."

After a lengthy silence Steve replied.

"If we're talking about the same team here, you're lookin' at it," he said, grimly, his reflection bleeding into vision as he pulled away from his own thoughts.

"Pretty sure I'm the last one left standing," he added quietly.

"I wouldn't be too sure _just _yet," Fury replied.

Steve looked up then, and just from the expression on his face, he could see the director had something up his sleeve.

Of course he did. What was it Stark had once said?

'_His secrets have secrets_.'

Steve let out a long exhale.

. . .

"So…" Peter began, squirming uncomfortably in his seat as the turbulence worsened. "Remind me why we're flying to Italy through the mother of all lightning storms?" He managed to raise a hand to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead, the other crushing the stuffing from his seat under his grip.

"Seriously you guys – it's like a Van de Graaff generator out there."

"Didn't know you had a fear of flyin'," said Steve, genuine surprise on his face. "You seemed fine in New Mexico."

"It's not the flying I'm afraid of," Peter whimpered.

"Settle down, Parker," said Fury. "We're meeting an old friend of mine."

"That's great." Peter laughed, managing to pry his eyes open long enough to look at Fury. "It's just great that you keep in touch with your friends. But it's the 21st Century, and there's a thing called _Facebook_. So is there a _reason _we _have_ to fly _directly through_ one of Mother Nature's temper tantrums to get to them!?"

The plane dipped violently then, fighting another wave of turbulence. Peter pushed his head back into the headrest and closed his eyes again, muttering something foreign.

"Sir, we've got an incoming distress call from… from London," one of the pilots called to Fury. The director unbuckled his safety belt and wandered over.

Peter laughed hesitantly and turned to Steve, who was far more interested in this 'distress call'.

"Heh, he just… got up out of his seat…" Peter muttered; face pale and more than a little green.

Fury returned moments later, a heavy look in his eyes.

"Sir? –" Steve's heart was in his mouth.

"–We just got a pre-recorded message from London HQ," said Fury, gravely. "They've been wiped-out."

The captain barely breathed, "_What!?_"

Fury's expression was dark as he said, "Looks like Loki's men found their location."

"But, we are gonna answer that call though, right?" said Steve, searching Fury's face for an answer."Right?"

The answer he found there wasn't the answer he was looking for.

"It's too dangerous," said Fury, in a tone brooking no argument. "If they've managed to find and infiltrate that base –"

"–but, sir, there are men's _lives_ at stake down there –"

"–we're no match for them!"

It was Fury's final decision. He'd put his foot down, rattled the already shaking walls of the aircraft with the sheer presence of his voice. But Steve would have none of it.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and practically flew towards the back of the plane, leaving a gawking Peter and a disgruntled Fury in his wake.

"Rogers. We are _not_ answering that call –"

"–_you're_ not," Steve bit out, "but _I_ am".

Fury shook his head. "Not in this storm you ain't."

"I second that," shouted Peter from his seat.

"Stay out of this, Peter!" Steve ordered. He pressed a few buttons on a panel beside a metal ring that contained the IP 1 unit. The system booted instantly, and the gears moved in such a way that in a moment the armour was partitioned to accompany its pilot.

"Stand down. That's an order, soldier," commanded Fury.

Steve shook his head then.

"I'm not about to leave those men and women stranded when I can make a difference."

He stepped in, and the machine did its work to seal him inside the armour.

"Steve, the suit still needs work, and you're flying into that flang-fest after barely a day's training in a controlled environment? I don't need a God damn psychiatrist here to tell me you're a few clowns short of a circus if you think you can get through this and come out the other side in one piece! Much less successful!"

Fury stepped forward, almost begging the Commander.

"You _need more training_."

Ignoring the director, Steve opened the rear doors, allowing passage for an unwelcome gust of wind and rain to spray the plane's inhabitants. The faceplate slid into position over Steve's face with a resounding clang just as a bolt of lightning snaked through the volatile clouds behind.

"_Seems like a perfect time to start, sir," _he said, resolute.

"If you see any gremlins on the wing of the plane," Peter called over the roar, "send them packing willya?" He laughed nervously, hands still clasped to his seat like vices as Steve dived headfirst into hell.

With the suit's navigation system lit up on his HUD, Steve instructed JARVIS to guide him to the bleak and broken city of London, somewhere below in the howling darkness, streaked with bright and violent light.

. . .

"They're smoking us out!" an agent shouted.

A small group of S.H.I.E.L.D personnel – no more than twelve– made their way down the long, dark winding tunnels of the underground, lit only by torch light. They were the few that had managed to escape the ambush in HQ, but now a thick cloud of tear gas was quickly sweeping through the murky passageways of the Piccadilly Line.

"Location!?" Grace shouted to another agent who held a defective navigation panel that flickered every other second.

"We should be approaching Trafalgar Square any… minute… now," the agent replied, smacking the device impatiently.

But the fog soon caught up with them and the walls of the tunnel disappeared. Everyone felt the effects of the tear gas almost instantly.

"Agent Stevens – what do we do now?" an agent choked.

Grace narrowed her eyes in the burning smoke and saw a crease of light down the end of the tunnel.

_That must be the station._

"Head for the stairwell! Quickly!"

"Street-level!? But we'll be exposed! –"

"-Do you wanna choke to death like a rat in a bloody hole or die with some dignity?" she yelled. "Get moving!"

The other agents didn't argue with her and pushed themselves up from the soot-ridden brick towards the exit. Grace's words may have sounded confident and commanding, but in truth she couldn't have been more terrified of what lay in store for them beyond those stairs.

That evening had already seen a massacre.

When they reached the last flight of steps at the mouth of the exit, Grace stopped, urging everyone to ready their weapons. There was the sound of gunfire and screams in the distance, but nothing close enough to be an immediate threat, and that troubled Grace.

It was quiet – _too quiet._

An agent shuffled towards her, eyes ever watchful on their exit.

"Still no word from Paris or main headquarters," he muttered.

Grace didn't respond.

"Stevens? –"

"–Shhh!"

The agent held his tongue and his breath, watching the same eerie steps that met the unusual quiet of street-level. Grace could sense that it was most likely a trap. She knew it.

"Tell everyone to fall back – get back into the tunnel," she whispered.

"What!?" the agent hissed, realising that he'd raised his voice before returning to a whisper. "Are you crazy?! The coast is clear! If we go back into those tunnels we're sitting ducks."

"You've spent _way_ too much time in HQ," Grace muttered, cocking her gun.

"When you're up here –" She reached into the inside of her coat and pulled out a small, black, round device, "–you're always a sitting duck."

She threw the device up and over the top of the stairs. It bounced along the uneven paving of the street, a red light pulsing gently to a steady beep as it rolled to a stop, taking out half of the surrounding terrain in a deafening explosion a scant second later.

It certainly livened the street up a bit after that, because the gunfire and screams were mere feet away.

"GET BACK INTO THE TUNNEL. NOW!" Grace yelled over the chaos that ensued above.

Most of the group immediately complied, running for the station platform again, but several opted to stay and secure their retreat with Grace, against her wishes. They threw their own grenades soon after, leaving the mouth of the exit to step into a cloud of smoke and gunfire.

But it was no ordinary gunfire.

An agent in front of Grace burst into dust before she could shout a warning. Another turned to a grey cloud right before her eyes, and then another, and another. She tried to retreat, stumbling backwards as her heel met a spent gun. And then she saw it, clear as day; a blue light, blazing a trail through a blanket of dust like a shooting star. There was no time – no time to escape the fiery end that approached her at great speed. No time to breathe. Not even the time to fully realise that a strange blue and red blur had valiantly shielded her from certain death, taking the blast like it was nothing more than a gust of wind.

The troops stopped shooting, recognising the dust-ridden frame of the figure that stood between them and their target. The metal plating was too dirty to make out much of the colour in the cloud of dirt, but the image was unmistakable, and it certainly warranted a call for back-up.

In the clearing dust Grace witnessed the tall frame of her armoured hero, unmoving and determined to stand his ground behind the humming of a holographic ring of red and white. And then, almost as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, had flown off somewhere within the dust towards her enemies. The gunfire returned, but grew less prominent as one by one the troops were beaten to the ground or were sent flying through the air in one fell sweep of the masked-hero's armoured hand.

When the last of the enemy soldiers was down, the figure turned and approached the winded young woman on the floor. The blackened faceplate slid up, but Grace barely caught a glimpse of his face before a nearby vehicle caught fire and exploded, sending a cloud of smoke and dirt towards them. Coughing into the fading smoke, Steve rubbed his face as best he could with his metal-clad hand, though Grace could only discern two of the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

"Are you okay, Miss…?" asked Steve.

Grace blinked, rubbing the dirt from her eyes.

"Technically I don't have a name, and I was never here, so let's just nix the pleasantries, shall we?" she bit out, releasing the empty cartridge of her gun and reaching for another in her back pocket.

She shoved the fresh cartridge in roughly, and muttered, "Oh, and I'm fine, thanks for asking."

Steve stammered; quite put-off by the young woman's response.

"Err, you're welcome…? I think?"

Grace glared at the man questioningly, forcing the cartridge fully into the gun's chamber.

"So, you got a name underneath that tin fortress you're wearing?"

Steve cleared his throat and cracked a courteous smile, but it didn't soften the expression on Grace's face.

"Commander –"

He was suddenly and rudely interrupted by the annoying patter of bullets at his back where an injured troop had continued to fire from the ground some feet away. Steve raised his hands apologetically before turning to fire his repulsor, destroying most of the pavement but adequately silencing the men for good. It was over-kill, but Steve still hadn't quite got the hang of the suit. He winced.

He returned his attention to the young agent whose face was contorted in mild surprise.

"Commander Steve Rogers, ma'am."

Grace snorted, her cold glare creasing into a wry smile. "Pffttt. _Ma'am_? Do I look like royalty to you?" She stood, brushing away patches of dust from her mangled coat.

"Bloody tourists," she mumbled to herself.

But the name did sound familiar. She narrowed her eyes.

_Surely, it couldn't be?_

"I'm sorry, I…this…" Steve trailed off, looking around rather confused at the barely recognisable landscape. "…this _is_ London, right?"

"Last I checked," she grumbled, sticking her gun back in its holster. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"No…" Steve murmured, still confused and mildly frustrated. "I received a distress signal from this location –" He snapped his mouth shut before he could reveal any more information, remembering that he still didn't know who the woman was, or her allegiance for that matter, only that when he'd arrived she was being shot at by a much larger force of attackers.

And Grace was suddenly more than interested in the armoured giant of a man.

"– A distress signal?"

"–Stevens!?" a voice called suddenly from the underground's entrance.

Steve and Grace turned at the same time to see that the other agents had left the shelter of the tunnel after much of the gunfire had ceased. The group stood at the top of the steps, just a little shocked at the sea of bodies lying motionless on the ground. Steve recognised their S.H.I.E.L.D uniforms instantly.

"Iron Man?" an agent muttered, confused.

Steve ignored that label, his face deathly serious.

"A S.H.I.E.L.D aircraft headed for Italy received a distress signal about an hour ago," he said instead, "I got here as fast as I could…"

He paused, counting the seven agents that remained out of a body of one hundred, give or take. His heart sank.

"…Is this everyone?"

Grace bowed her head in defeat.

"What happened here?" asked Steve in a quiet voice.

Grace turned to the tired eyes of her group again, taking in a deep breath.

"We need to get to the harbour," she instructed in a calm and commanding voice, swiping the defective navigator from the hands of one of the agents and muttering to Steve:

"I'll tell you on the way."

. . .

The storm soon found its way to London, smothering it in a sheet of bitter cold rain. The evening grew darker, but the street lamps of Westminster offered very little light that would fend off the kind of darkness that had consumed it. A small group of armed men dragged a battered S.H.I.E.L.D agent by his arms. His legs dangled helplessly behind him, the material on his uniform worn down at the knees. They reached the centre of a war-torn street, a great deal quieter now that much of the fighting had ceased, and threw the man to the ground. He landed face down on the wet tarmac, choking as the sting of the cold surface poked and prodded at his wounds, filling them with dirt and gravel.

"This is the last of them, sir," said one of the soldiers.

"I thought I made myself clear when I _specifically_ told you to bring me _prisoners_. This is _**a**_ prisoner," said a clipped voice from within the shadows.

The soldier cleared his throat nervously. "Yes sir, I understand sir, but…"

"Excuse me? What was that?" the cold voice snapped back through the soft hiss of the falling rain.

"I, erm… this was the only one still breathing, sir. The rest are… are dead or have –"

There was total silence as the voice slowly ground out, "–_Escaped_?"

The soldier nodded.

"Sir."

The soldier swallowed hard at the tall figure that approached from the darkness and into the orange glow of the street lamps then, accompanied by several higher ranked military men. The man on the ground lifted his head, noticing a pair of long black boots and a dark green cape of sorts stop a few feet away.

"Soldier, you do realise that your _**express**_ instructions were to _infiltrate_ the base, _capture_ their leaders and _**neutralise the rest**_?" By the sound of his voice the faceless man was growing more impatient as each word left his lips.

"Y-yes, sir," the soldier stammered back.

"Then please, _**indulge me**_ as to _**how **_you have managed to _**fail me so completely!**_"

"Sir… we were… we were outmatched."

There was a short pause before the painful crack of a blunt weapon meeting the skull of the nervous soldier caused the agent on the floor to flinch. The soldier fell beside him, still conscious, but the side of his head was smeared with fresh blood. The tip of a shiny gold and silver sceptre pressed firmly against the back of the soldier's head, warning him to stay down as he choked shallowly in the pools of rain water beneath him.

"Barely a hundred slow-witted S.H.I.E.L.D agents against _**an army**_ of heavily armed soldiers and you were _**outmatched**_!?" The tall man seethed.

"They had help!" the soldier spluttered pathetically.

"**What do you mean '**_**they had help'?!**_**"**

The soldier coughed, trying to calm his nerves and find enough breath to speak as the sceptre at the back of his head relentlessly pushed him down against the cold, wet surface of the road. The agent beside him dared to glance at the tall figure that loomed above them, but he knew exactly who he was. He was dressed in faded gold armour against thick black leather and green, a cape of the same colour draped from his shoulders that barely caressed the floor. On his head was a horned helmet of the same tainted gold. The man's face was hidden within shadow, a silhouette against the sickly orange glow of the street lights, but his profile was unmistakable.

It was Loki, and he was not at all in the best of moods.

The injured gunman spoke again.

"Sir, it was… it was _Iron Man_. They had _**Iron Man**_, sir!"

Silence.

Then the spear was lifted, and the soldier relaxed, barely.

"_**Iron Man**_? Really, now?" Loki's voice trembled with a swelling rage.

The soldier tried to speak, but Loki's spear had already met the side of his skull again. He fell, the blood smear on his head oozing with thick blood that pooled beneath him, making its way towards the agent who shifted away in terror.

"Does anyone _else_ wish to add further _excuses?_"

The other soldiers remained utterly silent, not daring to shift out of line or even meet their leader's eye.

Loki's attention drifted to the agent on the floor, and he lowered his sceptre, pointing it square between the man's fearful eyes.

"Seeing as you are the only one left," he said, sneering, "you will have to do."

He loomed over the shaken man, tilting his head upwards with the tip of his sceptre beneath his chin.

"I want to know the location of your remaining posts," Loki demanded.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the agent choked.

"Come now, you really wish to play this game? Do you take me for a fool?"

The man said nothing, but swallowed a dry lump in his throat.

"You have seen what happens to those who fail to deliver what I want," the god said softly.

"I don't know anything, so you'll just have to kill me," spat the man in feigned confidence, fine specks of blood spraying on the already bloodied golden sheen of Loki's sceptre.

The corner of Loki's mouth switched and he leaned down to close the distance between them, lowering the sharp edge of the sceptre to the throat of the unruly agent.

"I consider myself a _merciful_ King, " Loki breathed through a scowl, "but do not assume that I am a patient one. If you won't offer the information willingly, there are other ways of making you talk."

"You're not _**my **_king, you're a _**tyrant**_, and we don't cooperate with _**tyrants**_," the man dared to say with what little strength he had left.

Loki pursed his lips, carefully considering his next move; whether to bludgeon to death the intolerable piece of Resistance scum that dared to speak ill of him within his very presence, or to let that one comment slide. For now, it seemed, he would spare himself the effort until he had no more use of the man. He smiled coldly as he motioned the other soldiers to remove him from his sight.

"Take him."

They silently obeyed, hauling the fearful agent away and into the night, no doubt to be tortured until he cried the words Loki wished to hear, or he breathed his last breath.

Loki then directed his authority to his remaining troupe, a scowl upon his face as he recalled two words the foolish soldier had spoken; two words that irked him so.

…_Iron Man._

"I want complete access to every recording device on every street corner within this city," Loki commanded, his grip tightening on his sceptre.

"And bring me Hammer. I have some questions that need answering."

. . .

Dusk came swiftly to the city of Venice, Italy. The sun painted its cracked, fading walls a burnt orange as it began to dip beneath the water. Only the great painters and poets of old could adequately describe such beauty, but between the cracks and the narrow pathways there was an ugliness there that Clint Barton was more than capable of putting into words.

Though he wasn't much of a poet, or a painter for that matter, he had an eye for detail, and he knew trouble when he saw it. On this night, trouble came in the form of a middle aged man. About 6 ft 2, medium build. Nothing out of the ordinary in the way he looked, just the way he kept turning up in every place Clint dragged his sorry ass to.

_Him again._

Clint eyed his stalker through the bottom of the glass as he finished his second double bourbon. The man was sat across the bar, in the darkest corner with the broken light fixture. Clint shifted his gaze to the overhead TV behind the bar and lowered his glass. It was the same old news playing back on the screen – regimes that had fallen, countries under Loki's thumb, the rising death toll; add to that list the recent fall of London. Europe wasn't safe anymore. It was only a matter of time before Clint ran out of hiding places as well.

Another news headline appeared, describing the assassination of an ex-politician-turned-pro-Loki campaigner, followed by grainy photographs of someone that bore an uncanny resemblance to a certain archer that was sat in the quiet bar, casually having his routine drink, and minding his own damn business.

The barman gave him a knowing look, while several others eyed him dangerously.

Clint just cracked a wry smile.

He hated hiding anyway.

He dropped the glass on the bar before throwing down a few Euros and scooting off his stool to leave. And, sure enough, he had that extra shadow again.

Hands tucked into his black jacket pockets he walked through a generous crowd of people and pigeons. Now and then he'd turn a corner or look at his reflection in a shop window, just to keep his eye on the man tailing him. Then Clint tried something new. He managed to "disappear", leaving the man a few paces behind him rather unsettled. The guy kept on walking until he caught a glimpse of what he thought was his target, who turned suddenly down a narrow alleyway a few yards ahead of him. So, naturally, he followed.

But the alleyway appeared empty – that is to say, no one was at the other end. It was very narrow though, and dark. The man walked cautiously down, reaching a point where they alley met the steps of an adjoining walkway.

"Now I'm _your_ shadow," came a sudden voice from the darkness.

The man stopped dead in his tracks, instinctively reaching for the gun on the inside of his jacket.

"Ah-ah-ah. Wouldn't do that if I were you," Clint taunted, waving his own gun as a warning. "If you wanna keep all your digits I'd stay perfectly still. Now, I'm gonna ask you some questions, and I want the god honest truth. Or," he let his finger rest lightly on the trigger, "my finger might… just… _slip_."

He smiled wryly. "We understand each other, amigo?"

The man hesitated, and then gave in, raising his hands.

"Amico," he said plainly, "It's _amico_ – Italiano, for… for _friend_."

Clint released the safety with a click and the man's posture became rigid.

"That's what I said."

He leaned forward, just enough to reveal the glint in his eyes from the shadows, and asked,

"What's the price on my head now? How much they payin' you?"

"Two hundred thousand," the man spoke quietly.

Clint snorted.

"That it? Not only does that hurt my feelings but it makes _you_ look desperate." He shook his head. "They're takin' advantage, payin' you that chicken feed. I'd have asked for at least twice that much."

He moved closer then, keeping his eyes fixed on the man who stared right back.

"Just you?"

The man nodded emphatically.

"Ci."

"You better not be lyin'. Remember our agreement?"

The man chuckled.

"You won't do it," he sneered. "You're one of _them_. An _Avenger_."

A small bead of sweat slid down his temple, and his eyes shifted for the briefest of moments to another space over Clint's shoulder.

The archer noticed.

"Only on the resume," Clint muttered softly, before lowering his gun and kneecapping the guy.

And then Clint was dodging a sweep of gunfire from somewhere higher up and further down the alleyway. He ran towards its source, firing back at the injured man behind him who had found his gun and started shooting too. Clint heard the man cry out, and stop firing. One of the bullets had found his hands as promised. Clint shook his head, slamming another cartridge into his gun.

"Shoulda asked for more money, pal."

The gunshots continued to chip away at the weathered walls and footpath behind him, and Clint could see the gunman now, leaning out of a window with an M16 rifle, blazing a trail of bullets just short of his feet. Clint kicked against the wall of the narrow alleyway and managed to almost parkour his way up to the window below, pulling himself up and into the building a little less gracefully. But the bullets continued to follow him through the ceiling as plaster and wood rained down from above. He ran straight, continuing through room after room past screaming residents until he made it to the stairwell of what appeared to be an old apartment building.

"Oh, great. This looks familiar –"

A couple of bullets ricocheted off the metal railings of the stairwell and Clint cast his eyes up to see the gunman making his way down two, three steps at a time. He swung himself over the railings and decided to meet the guy halfway, narrowly dodging the gunfire that clipped the walls as he climbed up the side of the stairs. When the gunman was close enough, Clint kicked up his feet over the railing and slugged the guy in the face. A short tussle later and he finally wrested the upper hand, knocking the guy out cold against the solid banister of the stairwell.

The tranquil evening silence outside was abruptly broken as the unconscious body of the gunman was sent flying through the 5th story window and onto a parked car below, obliterating the windshield and triggering the car's blaring alarm. Oddly, no one seemed to notice, or care.

Clint tucked his gun back in the band of his jeans and wiped the sweat from his eyes.

"I need a drink," he muttered to himself then.

But when he finally reached his apartment door – which, unfortunately, was in that very building – some moments later, Clint was immediately on edge. For starters, the door wasn't locked as he'd left it – or even shut for that matter. He pushed it open slowly; the only noises a creak of old hinges and the soft brush of steel against leather as he pulled his knife from its holster. The room looked empty, and there was no sign of forced entry or a burglary, despite its unkempt appearance. But with the hairs on the back of his neck on end, Clint knew he was not alone. Then, from the next room, came a familiar voice.

"Agent Barton."

Clint heard the sound of steady footsteps, the creak of the bedroom door, before Nick Fury appeared before him like a ghostly memory; and an entirely unwelcome one at that.

The director dipped his head in greeting.

"It's been a while."

"Been meaning to get that door fixed," said Clint, idly throwing his knife at the wall without so much as a sideways glance. It embedded itself in a blanket of photographs, right between the eyes of a mangled picture of Loki that had borne the brunt of many a projectile before.

Walking over to the messy coffee table Clint picked up a half-empty bottle of bourbon and pushed over empty cups and dirty plates before finding the cleanest glass at hand, and taking it.

"What brings you to this side of paradise?" he muttered, beginning to pour.

Fury shrugged.

"Noticed you've been busy these past months. Sight-seeing around Europe?"

"You always said I should take a vacation," said Clint, bourbon slopping steadily into the glass. "Sorry I didn't send you a postcard. Must've slipped my mind."

He motioned to Fury with the bottle, but the director politely declined.

"Don't know why I'm here," Clint continued, obliviously, "Don't even speak Italian. And the pizza?" He shook his head. "It was a shock, but y'know, I think I had better in…"

He fell silent for a moment, bottle abruptly still in his hand, before he murmured solemnly,

"In Manhattan."

He downed the glass of bronze liquid, savouring the burning sensation at the back of his throat. It was an easy way of staying numb, and cheaper still. He reached for the bottle again to fill his glass, and Fury watched him carefully.

"Well, if the food and talk's not really doing it for you, we're shipping out tonight," Fury said, the director holding his gaze when the archer finally met it.

"There's a seat in the jet with your name on it."

"Go, with you?" Clint scoffed, coughing back a drink-induced laugh. "Where? You gonna put me up in a nice condo like before? Maybe throw in some health insurance? A retirement plan? All that jazz?" he said, waving his hands à la cabaret.

But Fury didn't say a word, just continued to stare at him with the same unreadable expression.

"Didn't think so," Clint muttered, raising the glass to his lips again.

"I was thinking more along the lines of a _mission _than a _mansion_," said Fury, slowly. "Came to see if my best marksman was still up for a job."

"Well, I'm not entirely lacking in the jobs department at the moment, sir. So, unless you got that mansion…" Clint sipped his drink, an eye fixed on Fury who paced the room slowly, taking the time to actually look at the archer's digs, having broken in some time earlier.

"This what you call home these days?" Fury sniffed, eying the peeling wallpaper distastefully. "Looks a little drafty."

The archer said nothing then, taking a long swallow. When he did speak, his eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere outside the window, and his thoughts were far away.

"I don't have a home…"Clint muttered.

And the memories came crawling back to the surface then, digging away at the topsoil until they were playing back right in front of his eyes; cycling, repeating. His missions with Natasha, their moments shared in secret, a lingering kiss.

A gunshot.

"…not anymore," he said then, voice full of bitterness.

He tipped the drink between his lips and swallowed – tears and all – slamming the empty glass on the table.

"What's the deal with you showin' up like the ghost of Christmas fuckin' Past anyway?" he sneered. "I was doin' just fine before _you_ rolled in."

Fury raised an eyebrow.

"If you say so," the director shrugged, with a calmness of presence that made Clint even angrier. "Chasin' down petty criminals? Tryin' to stay one step ahead of what passes for 'the law', these days?"

Fury fixed him with a look.

"How's that going for you? ..." he asked quietly. "You find the answer to your problems at the bottom of that bottle yet?"

Clint snatched up the bottle again in response, but left the glass.

"…Cos' from where I'm standing," Fury continued, "You don't look so good."

"Like I said, I _**was**_ _fine_," Clint bit out, snapping, "I _**am**_ _fine_."

He walked past Fury then, making his way into the kitchen. The director followed him.

"I think we both know that ain't true," said Fury. "You're _anything but_ fine." He looked at the bottle, and asked pointedly, "How long has it been since you were sober?"

When the archer didn't answer, Fury folded his arms and said, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "Well, I bet it's worked wonders for your aim."

Clint's jaw tensed and he stopped by the kitchen table, the bottle crashing against the wood as he slammed it down with a loud crack.

"I've seen the news footage," Fury continued stubbornly. "You've gotten sloppy, Barton. Lounging in bars, picking fights in public places? That tends to attract _a lot_ of unwanted attention."

"_Clearly_," Clint scoffed. "_You_ showed up, didn't you? Just – what is it you want from me, Fury? Cos' y'sure s'hell don't give a crap about my condition. Y'let me rot for damn near eight months, so y'can't be missin' me all that much. Or is it cos I'm makin' the headlines, hm? Suddenly I'm the World's Most Wanted, and here y'are in my apartment!"

Fury narrowed his eye.

"I didn' ask for your help, and you ain't getting' mine," said Clint spitefully, words just a little slurred. "So go crawl back under that rock y'came from, huh?"

The director considered him in cold silence.

"I wonder what she'd have to say about you if she could see you now," said Fury then. "Bet she'd be _real disappointed_ –"

"—You done?"

When Clint turned there were no tears, but his eyes were red and distant, still so angry; refusing to see the bitter reality that had been thrust upon him.

"Not even close," Fury said, putting his palms on the table. "Stop with the lone ranger act, Barton. Put down the bottle and pick up what's left of your dignity.

"You got a grudge to settle with a god?" he continued coldly, "Well _so have I_."

Then Fury shrugged.

"Way I see it? We're on the same side here. And I'm one marksman short of a full house."

"There are no _sides,_" said Clint, sniffing. "Just dopes with hidden agendas."

He pushed himself up from the table and casually made for the bathroom. At the door, he turned, gesturing to the exit.

"I already gave you my answer, Fury, so if you don't mind...?"

The director nodded.

"Alright. I get it."

"And close the door on your way out," Clint muttered over his shoulder. "It's a rough neighbourhood."

The bathroom door slammed shut, rattling the window panes. So he was running, again. That was his choice. After eight months, he was still running.

Fury sighed.

"If you really want to avenge her…" he said to the closed door, "start by avenging the rest of the world."

He eyed the bathroom door pensively, and placed a small communicator on the kitchen table. Before leaving, Fury called over his shoulder,

"You call me if that bottle doesn't work out for you."

From the other side of the wall, Clint heard the front door click shut. Leaning against the bathroom door he let out a long sigh, catching a glimpse of his tired, stubble-ridden face in the fractured mirror on the wall before him. When he was sure Fury had gone, he slipped out of the bathroom and collapsed into a kitchen chair in the next room.

For a long while he just stared at the small device beside the bottle. When he did finally pick it up, he abruptly decided against actually using it, and it ended up buried in his jeans pocket as he slumped down onto the battered couch in the living room, a bourbon bottle back in hand.

Out of sight, out of mind.

That was something of his catch phrase since his old life and the future that would've come with it had faded out of sight, when he had banished so many of the memories from his mind thereafter. But Fury returning had disturbed everything, his careful plans to drown his past in a fog of brown liquor.

From his dip in the couch, Clint fumbled for his bow and an arrow from his quiver and stood, unsteadily. Taking a few steps back in his living space until his elbows touched the wall he aimed shakily at the empty bottle still stood on the kitchen table. The bow's frame creaked, and the string tightened, snapping back as he let the arrow fly.

It missed.

Clint shook his head and inhaled deeply, reaching for another arrow and taking aim. Again, the bow creaked, the string tightened between his fingers, and this time, he exhaled slowly, _steady_. In that long breath, the bottle dissolved and he could see the face of his enemy; long and thin, sneering with a set of jagged teeth, white below a pair of emerald eyes that reflected the light like those of a cat.

And this time, he didn't miss his target.


End file.
